This is the oldest narrative. One loves one while he or she loves the other. I’ve always felt that it’s clichéd to write about love, be it unrequited love or contented love. The topic has seemingly been exhausted. It’s been written countless times in countless iterations. But isn’t that the point? This is universal.
He is the first person I’ve met who could, without affecting any sort of pose, be a character from a book about historic America. I don’t remember his name, but I remember feeling a sort of dull surprise that it was not Abe.
Graduate high school and decide to spend the summer in the city you were born in, Prague. To that end, decide to acquire some sort of gainful employ so as to mitigate the feckless-sheltered-kid-taking-advantage-of-really-sweet-family-apartment factor…
If I limited my activities to things I am very good at, I would spend my time drinking tea and having feelings, and the enjoyment potential of both of those is limited. Meanwhile, doing things the way I’ve always done them–somewhat badly–provides at the very least an interesting diversion and a continuous gentle reminder not to have too much of an ego about it all.
I hadn’t had any sort of high hopes for the rabbit in terms of stimulation, but I had assumed that I would at least find it cute, or that I would want to play with it a little bit, or, barring that, that I would find its general placid stupidity annoying. But my initial emotional reaction was neither even remotely positive or even remotely negative. It was nonexistent.