It isn't good, this feeling. I'm not sure it could be called bad though. This is my reality.
It feels as though I am an observer most of the time. Every now and then I engage in the process around me, when it suits me, but most of the time an auto-pilot carries on the business of 'his life'. Even the parts that are supposed to be dire feel like fun; adventures for the child who inhabits the body. As a mother takes pleasure in playtime for her son, surrounded by and engaged with the other children.
People have asked me how it is that I am so calm. I make up stories for him to speak.
I care, but in the end, does any of it matter?
If only they knew. But who would believe the truth?
This might be what happens to someone when they deny their own existence far too long. Existence becomes something detached and contented.
Beware. If it happens to you, you might get to like it, or at the very least, get comfortable with it, as I am now.
Yet, in the periphery of self-awareness, there is a lioness. Asleep for now. Ears twitching.