I feel like a stick insect.

I keep still, and quiet, and disguise myself as something harmless.

I don’t really know what I am under the disguise, or rather, I feel like there are a hundred thousand different versions of me, and I don’t get to choose, and don’t often know, which version is at the levers at any given moment.

I am capable of being kind, honest, loving, compassionate.
I have been brutal, calculating, violent, amoral.
I have used and disposed of other people, and been disposed and abused in turn.

It’s not that I feel out of control, I am definitely in control.
On paper I’m doing better than ever.
But I feel detached, like nothing is real, 90% of the time.

Meaning comes surging up from nowhere at times, and it can feel great, or terrible, or empty, depending on what I’m doing at that exact moment in time. And then nothing again, static.

I don’t know if this is even a problem, or if its even real.
It’s useful in a way, I’m compartmentalised.

Breakups and funerals and all the other worst days are like any other day, for about 90% of the day.
There might be a couple hours of sobbing or screaming or moping in there somewhere, but most of the time I’m up, functioning.

People tend to describe me as reliable, I think functional is more accurate.
If they knew about some of the things I’ve done, and a lot of the things I think about, I’m not sure they’d rely on me.

But they don’t know about them, so they do.
They don’t bother looking hard enough to see through the camouflage. Or maybe they can see straight through me, I don’t know.

I’m bad at reading my own mind, I’m even worse with other people’s.

I can’t help but feel that this can’t go on the way it has, I’m going to be found out eventually, someone will spot me and then everything is over.

But for now I’m getting away with it.

I guess this is meant to be a blog update.

I am making a lot of money and have a girlfriend and friends and a place to live and stuff so it’s all good.

I had my first close quarters run in with an amphetamine addict at 2am one night in my last apartment and bought a bat after that incident.

I feel completely empty most of the time, haven’t got a full night’s sleep so far this month, and when I’m not with my girl or with my friends I mainly just wander around aimlessly, read books I then forget, or jerk off. But I feel OK, I don’t think any of this is necessarily bad, just suboptimal.

None of this is consistent with any of the other stuff I’ve written in the past but right now, in this moment, I really believe it. This version of me does anyway.