I draw in a deep breath, hands running lovingly over the sheets of paper, like a father running his hands gently across the sheets of the bed, carefully smoothening them down over his sleeping child, like an old, learned scholar running his hands slowly, fondly, over a much-loved, dog-eared old tome of knowledge. I open the book. Within this book, for the past few nights, I have rediscovered the joy of writing. Within one moment, one hour of exhilarating, pure, pounding adrenalin and passion, I have rediscovered what I had lost. This truly is marvellous, indeed, old-fashioned pen and paper is wonderful.

As I sit here, contemplating the many marvels of the simple pen, my thoughts shift, slowly, to the world. The world has many forms. Sometimes, I envision it as a large cake with many layers of sweet, sugary icing, and decorated with the most delightful little designs and soft, curling puffs of cream.. This is when the world seems its most dreadful yet enticing, dangerous yet attractive, harmless yet sly, cunning. Why? Simply because between the layers of delicate covering, behind the veil of full cream, hazelnuts and chocolate chips, lies its true form. While in real life, this cake may be delicious, seen from my angle however, if it was the world, it is most dangerous. Now, what is the cake's original form? It would be the sponge of the cake of course! It's rather puzzling, isn't it? Why would a cake covered in delicious marzipan seem utterly sly, cunning, to be kept away from?

Well, the reason is very simple, very easy to understand. The cake has to be covered, smeared, plunged into the marzipan and cream, then given a sugary coating of chocolate chips, because, if presented with an ordinary plain cake sponge, would you eat it? Of course not! So, in order to make the world seem enticing and safe, decorations must be added, facades must be put on. This is the world at its most fake, this is the ugly side of the beast, rearing its ugly head. This is where cruel intentions are hidden behind sweet smiles and treachery could stare you in the face and you wouldn't know.

Then there are times when the world seems to fly by you so quickly, it appears to have taken on the form of a cheetah! If one isn't careful, if one doesn't keep a tight hold on the cheetah's back, one would be left behind or forgotten. The problem is, to keep up, you must never stop running, in this day and age, one cannot pause to look at the scenery, one cannot stop to pick the flowers. No, you must not stop unless it is absolutely necessary for you to rest or take a drink. Imagine driving your car on the highway, and seeing some beautiful roses growing from the middle or side of the road, would you stop your car and go to pick them? Obviously not, unless it was your wish to commit suicide! To do that would be suicide! The same thing applies to the world. What with wars, peace talks, bad relationships and so on, sometimes, the world seems to be rushing by without stopping to admire the finer things in life or finer, smaller details in life that are just swept away. Or to stop and realise the amount of work they have done or achieved.

What about the opposite? When life goes by so slowly, it seems that every second lasts longer than it used to do, say, yesterday. When it seems to crawl, like a turtle, very slowly. These are one of the times I like best, when the entire world seems to have been put into 'pause' or 'slow' mode. But, like a turtle, life still goes on, and the turtle still reaches its destination in the end. I like the world as a turtle. Life goes on, but slowly, so that there is time to bend down and pick the flowers for your bedside table, to smell the freshly cut grass or look at the stars. Or wonder, for the hundredth time, why the sky is blue, or lie back on the ground with your beloved and watch the clouds go by, slowly. Just meandering along, like a great, benign river, picking its route carefully, like a lady with voluminous skirts, careful in the mud, slowly, but truly, that is life at its best.

Lastly, I imagine life as a funeral parlour, solemn, full of so many pointless rites and rituals. This is one depressing place, full of many victims of many scandals, bleak, without hope. When I hear of the wars, the casualties, whether military or civilian, I think of a funeral parlour, with its empty coffins stacked away neatly, like books on a shelf, waiting for its first lifelong occupant. I know, it's a depressing note to end on, but these are my thoughts. You'd have noticed that none of the 'modes' that I imagine the world as are perfect, because the world isn't perfect, as cliche as it sounds, at all. That's what makes it so beautiful, I guess, in a sad way. The Earth is still living, but with every bomb blast and every building, every car we build and make, it is dying everyday.

Tonight is wonderful, it's slow, gentle, and a gorgeous night to be out. Like a soft blanket, caressing its sleeping occupants, come out and enjoy it with me.

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