you can think, like, enconsced in the forest, i will go pick mangoes, and you see it so clearly in your mind’s eye, that you are doing it, that you are loving it, but when you get back to your hut in real life, the floor is damp from something beginning to seep and this, now, must be dealt with. someone has also borrowed your coconut, a thing you did not know could be done, that it was even allowable within the community; certainly, you would not have allowed it, but now it must be conversed upon, with days and days of delay.
anyway, all this happens and so what were you supposed to do, pick mangoes? of course not. picking mangoes, a distant dream. let’s get real. there is no elevator. most of it is standing the sweat dribbling volumes down your thighs, the hands that are aching. but then you do get the mango in the end, all the more sweet for the sweat it cost, so it might, actually, be worth it. so it starts again, this idea of the thing being good, and you walk back into the forest as if in a dream-rubbing sleep from your eyes.
a random third thing is encountered, which turns out to have been your real love through the entire keening whole of your life.
and to think the randomness of the forest could just as easily have hidden it from you behind leaves, leaves, leaves