My wit on Dihan is rapturous and euphoric. Locating the best adjective that could paint an ideal picture of his inner soul in Anglo-Saxon has invariably been an unequivocal and irrefutable battle that I never win.
He is a tough cookie. A planner of pensive and contemplative endeavours. He is sharp and quick witted, proactive in every task that he takes up with. His regimen and groove ignite my creativity.
The gallant and dauntless soul lives within him is the classification of unrequited love. The versatile object that counts unparalleled popularity with a perpetual impact on the planet earth’s progress, invented by Wilbur and Orville Wright is his synonym.
Diving into and extending far down to my imaginative faculty, I would spark and fantasize walking hand in hand with him to London’s Albert Hall where Hamlet, the Bard’s 16th century play is staged.
Dihan decorates his throaty voice with a profound, cozy and intimate styles; it settles me with a tremendous feeling of an emotional citadel. His orotund voice is nothing but a stage of West End actors with resonance and imposition; the clarity of his sound is in dearth of an apt simile. Pomp and splendour dominate the enunciation of the clarity of his sound. His husky voice is the classification of an affable, dulcet and mellisonant quality.
Futuristic
Dihan is an abundant clean-cut dapper. In the conventional sense, multiple adjectives delineate his stately, suave and deferential self that makes him an exception in a crowd of daring men whose masculinity brings out an enduring insight for a timeless classic.
The words he utters are a mountain of unfathomable scale. On some days, his gray eyes are dark with some abysmal emotions.
I adore him for the very specific fact that he is futuristic; his forte is beyond belief. His ability to relate is astounding.
Dihan is a contriver and last but not least, he has got a pivotal degree of discipline; an epic of this calibre shapes and generates his personality.
As American novelist F. Scott Fitzgerald said he lives a life he is proud of. I am perpetually in awe of his ability of swamping his adversities and misfortunes.
He raises his hand for more of the strenuous challenges; his dream continues.
He watches himself getting to grips with every snag and hitch with uttermost tenacity and potency; he persists and stops at nothing. He doesn’t shut his doors against a setting sun as it may be in the case of the Bard’s Timon of Athens. The sense of extravagance that enriches his lavishness never leaves him alone. The gusty and bonny man in him is well proportioned from the abyss of eyes to the moderate expression of his voice.
Dihan is gracefully personable from his copious and liberal opinion to the touch of his hand upon his ebony love. Living in such a suave life, his inheritance is a handsome fortune of love and ecstasy. He is a strapping and sturdy beefcake, and I may even call him a Hollywood hunk.
In the summer of his life, under the scorching sun, he boils my smile. Splashing is a tuft of giddy in a flutter chatter; under the sky of his heart, rapture and elation take refuge in me. The touch of fundamental virtue that I accumulate under his shadow vanishes into oblivion. With him, I indulge myself with a nostalgic cloud nine of the yesteryear. I wish I could share with him the very same touching words that the Bard shared with the Earl of Southampton or the Earl of Pembroke that goes sumptuously as follows “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art lovelier and more temperate”.
Apart from the Bard, Burns too has a testimony for my undeclared utterances; should I falter or cease vacillating my evocation on Burn’s “A Red, Red Rose”. I tell myself that I mustn’t and simultaneously I quote Burns who penned “O, My Luve is like a red red rose, That’s newly sprung in June”. I ultimately prefer the repetition countless times and would declare that my love for him is a blue, blue sky under which red roses blossom.
