Love Tides | ✓

fifteen | good luck

κάναμε αυτές τις αναμνήσεις για τον εαυτό μας

[ we made these memories for ourselves ]

☆ ☆ ☆

"These are your photos?"

Avery nodded nervously as he cowered at the sight of Adamos staring at the new set of photographs.

There were a total of around thirty photos, all rounding around the images that Avery captured around in Greece—some were simply photographs from baklava pieces or some small animal that he had crossed. Yet, all of them were distinctively different to one another; Avery had taken photographs while he was in a wave of seasickness, when Penelope had pushed Odo into his face, or if he just tripped on a small rock—not only were they blurry, they were grained, scratched, distressed, even ripped. And more than half of the thirty were photographs of Penelope.

"Yeah," Avery bit the inside of his cheek, nervously nibbling on his skin. "They're a bit...different."

Adamos hummed in agreement as he moved the polaroids around, analyzing them closely. "I noticed that. Καλα καλα. They are—compared to your old ones. Man, those were too," he paused, "good. For my taste obviously."

"What's supposed to be 'perfect' for your taste?" Avery questioned, peeking over Adamos' shoulder of his photographs.

"Emotion," Adamos replied, lowering the polaroids and leaning back in his chair with an exhale. "Still. I don't understand what's your deal with acceptance. It's your photography—you can do whatever the hell you want with it. I'm not you and you're not me. We don't know what we want." He then eyed Avery skeptically, "Unless...you know something that you cannot tell?"

"No," Avery quickly shook his head in denial. "I'm just aspiring for perfection."

"Perfection does not exist, Lawrence. Or that is what we like to believe—perfection is what you believe it to be," Adamos raised a brow. "So, tell me—what's perfection for you?"

Avery shrugged. "I don't know. I just want to be the best."

"Confident, ambitious, cunning," Adamos mumbled. "A perfect example of a winner—but a loser too. Do you want to be a winner or a loser, Lawrence?"

"What's the difference?" Avery stuffed his fists in his pockets. "We're all going to end up the same. There's no point in choosing a winner or loser. Follower or leader. We are all the same in the end."

Adamos tutted, raising himself from his seat, he walked to the small coffee table across the room, fishing a bottle of liquor and uncapping it. "It's simple and plain. But—the difference is that the winners knew what they wanted, had an objective, and achieved it. But they aren't stopping; they continue, pushing the limits, getting better and better until they are the best. Then the losers? They saw a very subtle illusion of what they wanted to be—they imagined it halfway through, they never finished because they quit. That's why the winner takes it all; the award, the title, the image, the simple glory."

He raised the bottle to his lips, taking a swing. "But don't get confused—winners aren't always the most victorious. Hell, the winners are the actual losers."

Avery's forehead creased. "That doesn't make sense."

"Exactly!" Adamos snapped his fingers. "But, how does this whole game work—shall I demonstrate? Well, it's two people, both drawed. No winner or loser. The game is about to end and one of the two throws an ace. Boom! Victory is called. The judges decide, the spectators rage!"