Well, the book may now be closed on Albertine. And that’s fine, as my constant emotional pendulum swings, silences, depressions, and breakdowns were getting a little tiresome. “Just friends” means I can now give it up.
Which leaves me feeling a little empty, to be honest. Not empty in that I feel lovelorn, not like a vessel in need of filling. More like a vacuum. I feel like my emotional state is now subdued, and like I could use something new to care intensely about. Even Steven is fine, but that loses its flavor quickly. I mean, there are baths, and coffee shops, and books, but these feel more like means of pleasantly filling time, and not like passions. And there is my work, but you can only love that so much. While it’s pleasant to feel like I’m not on the verge of tears half the time, I’m also not on the edge of ebullience. Perhaps I should start drinking, or knitting. . .
No, I’m sure something will come along. Some depression-inciting anticipation, the promise of tenuous meaning and lifelong fulfillment will reemerge. It always does.
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