Double Trouble Too // Neymar Jr //

-3.1- Wishful Figments

"There are diversities of gifts, but the same Spirit."

-1 Corinthians 12:4.

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Human nature is strange. One minute you can go from wondering to completely taking yourself out of a situation. To thrusting yourself into the deep unknown for the sake of it, to later stand back and fact check.

From being angry with a person to yearning for their familarity.

To butting yourself into things that are not your business, to waiting and observing.

An intricate mind is something terrible to waste on trivial things.

Quite the contrary, it is also a terrible thing to waste on sounding pompous, and trivial.

I was over it.

It wasn't about me this, me that. That era of my story was over. I welcomed in another, which saw my eyes opened, and my pride unfusing itself with self.

I had decided to spend some time talking to an old friend, or a mentor. Technically speaking. The last few days left us all the more time to talk.

People had lives, their own struggles, their break throughs, and bad habit.

Margo lit a cigarette, a nasty habit of her's that she tried to break for years. She gave into her cravings, and let it control her life, smoking one to three packs a day. It aged her years, and her once youthful face was rigged with fatigue and a forever flushed face.

"Remember," the blonde began, fumes filled with ammonia fanning out of her straight nose, "when Katilina and you used to go to the markets in the city?" She inhaled the toxins, closing her hazel-green eyes. "Your relationship was special, real special." She coughed.

She was wrong about 'was'. It still is. In a sense.

Oh, who I was kidding, it hadn't been so since she got with Zico.

Our legs swung over the edge of the railing that overlooked the favela. It was a beautiful, yet depressing sight. The people walking below looked as if they were minuscule, but we could not have been more than 30 feet high. My eyes followed along the streets that connected the little village, with a group of boys running along. I called to them, and they waved, having no clue as to who I was since we were seated up so high. We seemed just a little closer to the sun, though.

"We were kids 5, 10," she coughed, "almost two decades ago. Look at us," she offered me a cigarette, and I kindly objected, "you're a footbalista, Andrew's a father, and Kat--Kat's getting married." The wide smile sprung up on her face. "I run a convenience store," she nodded, blowing thick smoke as she lit another.

I sighed, pulling my knees to my chest, laying my head on them, and smiling at Margo, who continued to smoke as if she were in love with the toxic stick. It was poisoning her, but it was her poison. Slowly.

What was my poison?

"I'm addicted to this." Margo's cracky voice filled my thoughts. "It's not good when you're addicted to poisons, but you could even look at love that way." She nudged me.