Krishee is my beau; however, my naked eye would never be fortunate enough to have a glimpse of him, in my wild imaginations, I speculate that his admittedly lavish and exotic wardrobe and cufflinks of yore make him resembling a dandy.
The politeness of my beau monde, in other words, catalyses the commercial world. As I indulge myself in an enchanted and euphoric nostalgia on the exoticism of the subject of fate surrounded by our life choices in “Who Ever Loved that Loved not at First Sight” by Christopher Marlowe in love poems of the English renaissance, Krishee satiates himself with Robert Boyle’s encounter with the law of gases.
As I become enamoured with the stability and aplomb of romance and its might and power of canonizing and ennobling someone in Shakespeare’s “Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day”, Krishee instantly falls head over heels for “The Grand Design” by Stephen Hawkings and Leonard Mlodinow while being exceedingly ecstatic over his recollection on a lecture, delivered on black holes, time and gravity by Hawkings.
As I non coercively rush into a self-imposed seclusion of my pipe dream of enhancing my meagre, naive and impotent conscience of being a recipient of either the Pulitzer Prize or Man Booker prize, Krishee diving through his ingenuity, flies over to Stockholm with a sense of grace and gratitude as if he were to get himself decorated with the Nobel prize, the most capping accolade - the utter most esteemed scientific award on the planet earth.
As I bubble on globetrotting around the principality of Monaco on the French Riviera on the Mediterranean Sea, Krishee becomes rigid and resolute on an upcoming business entourage. As I extol on my locomotive expedition across the picturesque topography running through the misty and foggy central hills in the splendid island of Sri Lanka, Krishee eulogies on a laudatory on his A G-suit, helmet, oxygen mask and the parachute that decorated himself a conquering hero by virtue of his daring fearlessness.
As I get myself tickled in an intense and astounding slapstick and mime of the Hollywood giant Charlie Chaplin, Krishee regaled himself with the intrinsically knack of exaggerating facial expressions and body movements of the British comedian Rowan Atkinson whose humble beginning lies in the West End of London.
Eight sweethearts
In retrospect, as I scarcely share an account of an ardent and eligible suitor with eros or agape during the spring of life, Krishee relies on a schmaltzy of hearts and flowers, gifted simultaneously by his eight sweethearts who he dated while being on air expeditions. As I relish myself with the ecstasy of being a teetotaller, Krishee insists me on a Vin-de-pays. As I pen him a cuneiform style of an interminable text, Krishee returns me a teeny-weeny confab.
As I rebound my text steadfastly and resolutely, Krishee becomes a dyed-in-the wool conservative, taking a century for a possible acknowledgement. As I benevolently coin him a name and call him “my gem”, Krishee deliberately and diplomatically reacts with a pretentious ignorance, surrounded by sarcasm.
As I snivel and bawl over my poor soul being a bullied victim of colour discrimination in an indigent and penurious cycle while schooling, Krishee recalls on the gritty swashbuckling bravado and flamboyance in his elite alma mater in the central hills. As I brood and perturb over a bit previous bog off from the entity that gave him wings, Krishee becomes adamant and condones over his compromise.
As I contemplate on an intended stopover at the Henley Street, Stratford-Upon-Avon, Warwickshire at The Bard’s 16th century refurbished half-timbered house, Krishee ponders, mulls over and ideologies in getting isolated, insulated and segregated from the human interaction while being on board a spaceship.
As I recollect on my struggles and battles, fought with tooth and nail to avoid myself being an utter failure at tertiary exams, Krishee blusters on an avowal on his spell in solving Physics formulas in the wilderness of his dreams.
As I subdue myself with a countless number of sleepless nights during the run-up to decisive exams, Krishee gracefully extols on sharing a glass of wine with his sweetheart in a lavish bash and just on the next day being the virtuoso among his colleagues at any given test.
As I dream of getting myself stranded in an aesthetic and inventive hallucination of walking along the red-carpet hand in hand with him to the London’s Albert Hall to see Shakespeare’s Hamlet getting staged, Krishee rushes into a fantasy where he crowns himself on a land where the humans are on the verge of extinction.
All in all, in an ultimatum, as I beyond any doubt decorate myself with a deliberate thought of pride and prestige over him being my privileged, celebrated and versatile buddy, Krishee solemnly and acutely bewitches himself over the hoodoo of me being his daunting, incommodious and awkward chum.