THE man who sold the world
Sept 14, 2012 17:08:07 GMT -5
Post by cooperdraven on Sept 14, 2012 17:08:07 GMT -5
Cooper took a deep breath, taking in the fresh air of the California coast. The salty, easy breeze of his home state had elluded him for months now. He missed it. He missed surfing and skating, and he missed the easy going English dialect of California. He missed San Francisco and San Luis Obispo and Los Angeles, even if it was grimy and smelt weird. But he was finally home. Cooper looked out over the edge of the balcony of his private fortress and sighed. It would be difficult to go back to work after traveling for so long. He loved the work, that much was for certain. Acting had been his life, his driving force, and his livelihood for the majority of his life.
But the events of the last year had changed him, changing his perception of the thespian arts from a pure one to a bitter resentment towards it. He swirled the White Russian in his hand and took a drink. Too bitter. He sighed and finished it off, lighting an American Spirit and kneeling on the railing. He was truly alone, in every sense of the word. His kids were off in Germany. He had no significant other. He had not bothered to inform Malcolm and Abigail that he was in town. The solitude, while lonely, was in a way the most refreshing thing he had ever known. No one to bark orders at him or criticize him for anything. Just a man, his thoughts, and a mixed drink. He set the glass down on the outside table and flicked off the half consumed cigarette, the taste of smoke leaving his mouth bitter and dry. He moved inside and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked old for a twenty five year old. He always had. He felt as he might have been a hundred years old, with the kids the cancer and the lengthy career all under his belt. He was constantly tired, yet didn't feel depressed. He was at peace.
And that was the only thing Cooper Draven could ask for.
But the events of the last year had changed him, changing his perception of the thespian arts from a pure one to a bitter resentment towards it. He swirled the White Russian in his hand and took a drink. Too bitter. He sighed and finished it off, lighting an American Spirit and kneeling on the railing. He was truly alone, in every sense of the word. His kids were off in Germany. He had no significant other. He had not bothered to inform Malcolm and Abigail that he was in town. The solitude, while lonely, was in a way the most refreshing thing he had ever known. No one to bark orders at him or criticize him for anything. Just a man, his thoughts, and a mixed drink. He set the glass down on the outside table and flicked off the half consumed cigarette, the taste of smoke leaving his mouth bitter and dry. He moved inside and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked old for a twenty five year old. He always had. He felt as he might have been a hundred years old, with the kids the cancer and the lengthy career all under his belt. He was constantly tired, yet didn't feel depressed. He was at peace.
And that was the only thing Cooper Draven could ask for.