The champagne I am drinking is effervescent, but I am not. I don't bubble any more, with anxiety or excitement. I'm on Prozac now, and it has evened me out so effectively that I don't worry all the time, I don't feel a tightness in my chest or an inexplicable anxiety in my whole being. But I also don't feel inspired - I have no drive or passion of any kind. I can't write and I don't have any particular dreams. I have some small worry about not being able to pay for my life a year from now, after graduation when the loans dry up, but I can't muster a substantial enough concern to force myself into any sort of action. I wonder if the trade was worth it - if the lack of terror is worth the absence of exhilaration. I don't want to go back to the ongoing misery of before, but I don't see anything in front of me, and the void isn't worrisome. And that's perhaps the most troubling prospect of all.
But of all the problems to have, this isn't a bad one.
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