Still waiting for a publisher with the foresight and courage to publish my philosophical masterpiece, I have decided to bide my time by turning to fiction. Here is a sample from my latest literary venture.
Living in a delicious dreamworld,1 Rapshaldeo laments the fact that he may grow bored of the vast wealth and wonderful experiences his life has brought him. Worse still, he is unable to live forever and perpetually get what he wants. On the eve of his 29th birthday, he realises to his great sorrow that he will grow old, like every other human being that has ever existed.
Rapshaldeo wandered out into the crisp air of early October. It seemed as though autumn had descended without any warning, and crisp withered leaves had already carpeted the footpaths. His crisp, nimble-footed gait propelled his body down the avenue, and his thoughts wandered along the rich and colourful landscape of his mind. Crisp ideas ran sequentially into each other, creating a beautiful tapestry in his vast imagination. The stream of his consciousness flowed crispily like a kaleidoscopic lucid dream. He pondered mental objects as ethereal as the illusive memory of feeling secure, sitting with his father in his classic Chevy Corvette, and as material as the crisp squeak of the leather seating. They were faded memories now, their crisp feel now rendered dull by the passage of time. His sigh was made visible in the crisp, chilly air. The gravity of profound sorrow weighed heavily on the crisp contours of his muscular shoulders. The multiple models who charmed him into sharing the crisp sheets of his bed had left him feeling cold; loved temporarily, like the sea set aglimmering by a short parting of the clouds. He could write a lengthy doctoral thesis on why he failed to connect with someone who could complete him crispily. A bittersweet smile creeped crisply on his face, as he contemplated a possible title; The Theory of Rapshaldeo's Everything: The Complete Hypothesis. It was not beyond his capabilities, possessing a crispy PhD in English Literature for a thesis that was almost rejected for being too beautiful and too closely resembling a work of literary art. It was only one of his specialities; sculpture, painting, skilled love-making, poker, fencing, the sciences, boxing, polo, making delicious crispy baked chicken, and acting were among the many abilities he mastered with ease. Yet, the more he learned the more he became aware of the crisp limits of his knowledge. In the best case scenario he envisioned, he would live forever and never completely assimilate all the knowledge of this crisp old world - a futile labour akin to The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy. In the worst case scenario, the volumes of undisclosed literature, their pages crisp with age, piled up and up in his mind, creating a death skull edifice that told him of the nature of his existence.
Bereft of love in the crisp wind and facing the futility of learning, Rapshaldeo sought solace in the thoughts of his loved ones. His friends were so multiple that he liked to separate them into castes of precious gold, shining silver, and crisp bronze. Bronze kept him busy and usually evoked friendliness; silver brought him fun and merriment; gold did too, and they listened when he spoke, ever protective of his crisp, delicate feelings. But, in a twist that was as ironic as it was crisp, it was never enough. They could never see the entirety of his soul, even when it shone outward through the crisp pores of his body. Even at this most beautiful of states, he was still only partially revealed, like the light shining through a crisp autumn leaf. His beauty crisply told the world of his inner truth, but not all of it. Even his older sister, who doted on him all his life, could not see how truly world weary he had become in the crisp recent days. The heliacal burden of being an enchanting light to the world had burned him to a crisp. Then, at the crisp nadir of his pensive thoughts, the crisp chill of the autumn air struck him and commanded him to pay attention to the crisp wisdom of the night. The bleak crispy despair of the poorly lit street listened and understood him. The ink-crisp night knew darkness better than any mortal, and it recognised it in Rapshaldeo. It crisped him crisply to a crisp. Crisp, crispy crisps crisped crispiness crisply.2
1 I know this because I licked it.
2 Now reread the whole text, substituting 'crisp' with 'potato chip'.
