This mango here on my desk isn't ripe yet. I'll sit it on top of my monitor, and watch it change colors over the next day or so, until it's yellow and ready to eat. The mango is very unhappy to be here, I think. He doesn't see any sandy soil to fall in, no birds to carry him far from his parent tree. I understand how he feels. I wasn't made to sit in front of this screen, and twiddle my fingers. I was made to hunt, and run, and laugh. To find the perfect woman, and to draw her close to me, and to jealously protect her, and the family that we raised.

But then, this mango is delicious. And I was made to die before I was thirty, and to never see more than a few hundred miles of savannah, to never think of much beyond what I could see. I am a little out of place, but that discomfort is little issue, compared to what I can do because of it.

There were too many couples on the beach today. It was very sad. So many of them seemed unhappy, walking a few feet away from each other, or limply holding hands, looking in opposite directions. I wanted to shout, "don't you understand what you have?"! "Talk! Laugh!, take her face in your hands, feel her hands on your body, Kiss each other, and say the things you can say to someone who you trust with your body..."

I didn't. Perhaps I should have. I should have lined them all up, and drawn lines in the sand. I should have told them how precious those few inches of personal space that only a lover is allowed to intrude in becomes to you when no one is there.