❝ Photographs. ❞ | rokcale

12

Chapter 12
Photograph : Liquor Cabinet

  
      "You okay, lad?" The bar owner spoke as he slid another glass across the counter, the young red-headed man across him took the glass without any hesitation and downing it in one second.

"Mh, no." Cale responded with a sigh, deep bags hang beneath his eyes. "Just feeling a bit down on the weather. Business matters." Cupreous irises glance towards the ceiling before it falls back on the counter. He watches as the owner hums casually, shaking up other drinks for the other costumers then responding back.

    "Don't drink too much, then." The old man around his fifties chuckles, "Birds whisper about lurking women." The old man's eyes swept over the sea of dancing people, noticeable hungry eyes stared over the young red-haired man.

The joke was unnecessarily made since Cale was more prone to like a guy but he snorts in amusement. As it is true, his good looks and charm had been sorted to an S-rating by people on the internet. Women have their souls carved out for him, even guys but Cale was uninterested. Sure, he's had his moments of impulsivity but pining for an absolute decade is the worst thing to pull him over to the shore.

     "Even so, I'm uninterested." The photographer bluntly denied, and could see a woman near him slowly directing her figure away from him. "I'm more interested in their jobs anyway."

The bar owner took a guffaw, "A passion driven, hm? I get what you mean."

    Cale chuckles, a figure of a writer appears in his mind.

    Imagining how he would look like if he was focused on creating his work, and something funny—blossoms over his chest, "I suppose..."

-

       Life was an architectural concept, for it is built and molded by seamless lines and shapes. Geometrically crafted and designed for whatever what it was deemed for. A word that revolves everything, for every noun and even for objects that don't have the need to breath. Life is something centred without question, and is the belief or the point thereof viability.

        However, life in itself is vague and built on hard concrete walls that seemed to have stronger grip better than irons itself. Perhaps, curiosity and knowledge are nothing more but a stepping stone — perhaps, that's true for some people.

   Because life is nowhere near emotions, life is nowhere near things nor does it even breathe. It's just there, it lives deep in the shells of living beings. Sometimes, it makes you question the existence of your soul and being here.

      Or perhaps, Roksu is just as high at the moment because he swears he's been going back and forth with this draft inside his screen with the lights glaring right back at him in the middle of his unconventional lonely dark lit room.

   Writing stories, for the lack of better words, is quite a facile task to do, a cinch. Now, he might get lots of backlash from that thought but in his situation, it is easy.

Quite so to the point of every minute and every scribble, there's always new things appearing on mind in every possibilities with the way he writes his characters. It flows, like a stream, as if there was no barrier and it just keeps on pouring. But in a way, writing stories are also tiring. It comes within a passion for writing, a passion to strive and to create. To give life to something innate, of someone's byproduct of fantasy. And perhaps that's been his entire life, creating, giving, doing.

    Though, it had always been tragedy that he'd given to his sad-sack of characters he has. Not like he cares, it gives him money and it makes his readers cry. That was enough. Yes.