When I look back through my diaries, my scribbles, my notebooks, it’s always been there. The knowledge that deep down, there is nothing to find. Nothing interesting, nothing good, nothing worthwhile.
Getting to know me is like the dread childhood experience of being given a matryoshka. What could be at the centre of something so interesting, so carefully crafted, so intriguing? Work your way through the elaborately decorated layers to reach the middle, and all you find is a nub of plain wood.
The whole of my life is designed around trying to conceal this fact.
Don’t bother to come close, dig down. You’ll only end up disappointed, like everyone who went before you.
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