A Tale Of Two Mangoes

On my dining table this morning, there sat a half-mango in front of me, sliced further into two. The edges of the two halves fitted synchronously with each other like puzzle pieces that hadn't yet been separated. A few millimeters apart, and yet significantly disjointed, the fruit pieces sat on the plate obediently and submissively waiting to be eaten by someone, and finally embarking on a solitary journey that would end with an inevitable transformation into human excrement only to unite with more city sewage. What a fall from gastronomic glory, I thought to myself.
I sensed a very palpable poetic opportunity in what seemed like the metaphorical equivalent of life's humble and solitary beginnings, scattered moments of fame, validation and glory, and the eventual and unavoidable fading into black.
Golden-yellow slices of a fruit that I wholly despise were teaching me how everything on this planet mirrors a universal truth. There is a similarity even in the differences that each situation presents before us, and no matter how bright we shine, or how succulent our offerings are, there is a definite full-stop staring straight into our eyes at a certain distance. Why not make the journey from the cradle to the four-poster bed to the inescapable grave an enchanting and unbelievable tale of unforgettable experiences and victories?
Leave aspirations of mediocrity behind and allow yourself to be a game-changer. The world needs more of those.