The Inky Blue

The Inner Flame

Who is to know the fate of the thousands

If the hand that wields arms flinch

We are not alive just because the stars aligned

We are breathing because the flame burns too wild to cease

Some may call it strength and admire the flame

Some may name it insidious and cast it a wicked fame

There is no glory in walking amongst the dead

For the dead writes as much history as the living

Exposition: Who is to know the fate of your future if you yourself hesitate with every step? In every person, there is a fire in them that keeps them alive. Sometimes it may translate as stubbornness or insistence that makes others uncomfortable. Who cares if someone judges our inner fire just because they are without their own? There is no glory in trying to fit in when you know being a mindless chameleon is only going to make you miserable.

30th July 2026
Love Began As A Pulse

Love began as a pulse.

In the dark, cradled by the universe newly-formed, was a small creature.

This creature knew not words, not just yet, but its eyes were crystalline, and its fingers reached forth, learning the shape of the deep darkness. The shape was one of an embrace – the only thing the darkness knew to do.

Slowly, gently, the creature explored the dark. The void was a nurturing parent. It didn’t take long – in fact it was instinctive – that the creature began learning its first steps.

Learning to reach out.

Learning to stretch its fingers, move its legs.

Learning to smile.

And then learning to love.

Love began as a pulse, and by that I mean the primordial form of love, love in its rawest form. It began when the creature first dawned its eyes, and because trust was a constant, love began to blossom.

Love did not begin as a contract of pain, struggles, envy and cycles. Love bloomed in the warmth of curiosity, trust and openness.

We are all capable of this purest form of love.

It is in us all along.

Think of the people, places and things that spark curiosity, trust and openness in you. You have no need to second guess the love they spark in you, for it is a constant, as steady as the air flow.

We love, as naturally as we breathe.

25th July 2026
Hope

Hope does not have to be where dreams linger.

Sometimes hope is the wild-eyed orphan that stalks across landscapes of shuffling masses – known as life – a deep-seated, blissfully- satiated normalcy.

Or it could be that hope is just the quiet trickle of hopefully not messing up a thing. You trod through life, learning some things, losing some, but hey, nothing’s perfect. So nothing’s wrong.

You’ll know which to trust – the unhoused orphan or the phantom trickle, hopefully, when you see them.

Or better yet, trust neither – trust the third that comes along. The dark carries charm, or so they say.

~~Interpret this poem as you will. I myself don’t know what I just wrote.~~

25th July 2026
The Light

I die of embarrassment.

My thin skin stretches, to the hollows of self-plight. If I had smiled a little more genuinely, curated the right words out of my foamy, fragrant mouth, copied their spirits down to the T, I would have shame less brutal and unforgiving than the Gates of Hell!

But no, I had to smile a little more crookedly, perhaps showing a bit of yellowing teeth, perhaps I had been too awkward, maybe they’d have accepted my form if I had leaned into theirs a bit. So I keep dying, and dying, and dying all the same. I don’t just socialise – I survive plights. There is nothing as dramatic and damning as a stranger’s passing remark. Their approval hangs on high beams, and the light suffocates. None of my kind escapes the light. We welcome it. We were moths born from it, bathed in it, molded from it, and so the Light is a language we speak fluently. The Light is a code we do not break. The Light is a dream we chase, chase, and keep chasing.

For none leave the Light, unless one sees it for what it is, and when that happens, life would still go on – the Light unharmed, a tower of adoration.

But it would mark a new beginning.

The thinly-stretched skin would stretch beyond the bones, baring the depths, and not a shred of shame would bleed. My foamy mouth would leak not fragrance, but thought – simmered, boiled, served. My Light would glow from within, not without. My truth would flower from the heart, not from high beams.

And yet the moth… the moth would stay. For the moth is never to be blamed for seeking light.

Light.

What a word, and worlds within this word.

Choose wiser, little moth.

25th July 2026

emotions, poetry, social-anxiety, writing, writing-therapy
My Truest Self

I will scream, and scream, and scream until I run out of breath, and scream, and fall back on the dusty floor, struggling like a dying fish.

I will evaporate and drown; nothing saves me. I am a feather drifting without a place to land. I am what sad old men point at, only to whisper, “Fate.”

But I am not exactly fate. I am something much more careless. I knock my gigantic limbs across skyscrapers, slam into farmhouses and temples, uproot forests and streams. People scream in terror, their mouths agape at this titan of horror. Their lives flash before their eyes, but I do not stop. I cannot stop, as I see buildings turn to scraps, forests turn to fire, and my once-beloved playground turn to dust.

I am not exactly cursed, although one might say I was cursed since the very beginning. My head is a safehouse for several faces, all distraught and none friendly. My skin is callous as the desert, my eyes orbs of dark goo, my limbs strong enough to break a bridge in two, yet too weak to mend a dying bond.

No, I won’t say I’m cursed. Even if on the outside I am burdened with every anomaly, I’m not exactly useless. If I try to see through the storm that rages across my heart, I know that its mother is envy, its father a crippling self-worth. If I try to water my heart that is too fevered to flourish a flower, I might soon find an oasis. Maybe I’d suffer some mirages borne of indifference, but none can deny that deep down, beneath my scarred heart and traumatised skin, is an oasis of warmth and love. See, I’m not entirely cursed after all.

One day the skyscrapers will reach new heights, never to be knocked down by mindless limbs. Farmhouses and temples will raise a friendlier spirit, house a happier soul. The streams will flow long, and the forests will once again conquer the desert, bloom the flower of their own fate. And far in the future, or perhaps in the very next second, I shall reunite with my truest self.

22nd June 2025

angst, emotions, fantasy, fiction, memories, pain, poetry, short-story, writing
The Cat with Stars for Eyes

There once lived a cat with stars for eyes.

Her name was Stara. No one named her. She assumed it to be her name after so many shocked people pointed at her and screamed, “STARRRRRR!!!!!! AHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!” at the top of their lungs before the ultra-brilliance of the galaxy in her eyes blinded them forever. Only half of them lived to tell the tale.

Because of this, Stara became a very sad cat. She had no idea why these abnormally tall, furless creatures liked to make loud noises to greet her, then proceeded to collapse. At first, she found this behaviour extremely annoying and discouraging, because she heard from other cats that the Furlesses might be noisy (and smelly, and oily, and all sorts of nasty), but they gave very nice hugs because they were born to serve cats as hug cushions and food dispensers. Stara would like to experience being hugged and cared for by a Furless too.

“But your eyes are too bright. Even us cats think they’re a bit too flashy,” her friend Toby the Tabby said.

“Yeah. Stop stealing the spotlight,” commented another friend, Blah Blah the Black Cat.

Stara paid them no mind. This was her dream, and she was gonna make it come true. If someone were to describe Stara with one word, it would be determined.

Thus began Stara’s journey to finding the perfect Furless. She walked around different neighbourhoods to look for Furlesses, then hung around schoolyards for shorter ones because she thought short Furlesses wouldn’t scream as loud as the tall ones, but boy, was she wrong. At the end of the day, or perhaps the week, or the month, or even the year (because Stara got so dizzy due to the ungodly screams, she lost her sense of time and perhaps her sanity), the sad, dejected Stara limped her way to a low tree that looked just as sad and dejected, and proceeded to take a nap.

A nap that felt like forever, a nap that she woke up from thinking she was dead. Maybe a thousand cat years had passed during her search, or maybe this wasn’t even real and it was just a dream, because right in front of her was a Furless, and it wasn’t a screaming one or a dead one. It was a Furless with a soft, happy smile on his face, and he was petting her gently while humming a soft, melodic tune.

Stara, shocked, shot up suddenly and eyed the Furless as if he were going to scream any second now, but he only looked slightly surprised.

“Oh, you’re awake, I see,” said he. “Uh, meow?”

Stara held his gaze for a brief moment, then she meowed back.

The Furless giggled. The sound shocked her and almost caused her to scurry away, but she noticed sharply that this loud noise was different. He seemed happy, unlike those screaming Furlesses. He stopped giggling after a while and resumed his calm demeanour.

Stara calmed down too and stared at him again.

This time, he sighed. “It’s spring. Can you believe it? Too bad I can’t see flowers, but I know they’re pretty from memory.”

Stara had no idea what he was talking about, but she liked his voice. It was soothing and a bit slow. It reminded her of clouds slowly drifting across the sky. She inched forward until she was in his lap again.

“I think you’d like flowers too. You’re fluffy. I don’t know what colour cat you are, but I can imagine a cat in a flower field. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

She meowed in reply. He petted her gently again, and she purred in response. They spent the whole evening together. To Stara, life had never been so peaceful. To the young man, life had never been so vibrant.

16th March 2025

animal story, cat, cats, childrens-story, fiction, funny, pets, story, writing
Caterfly

I’m the pearlesque egg under humble leaves where Momma left me

I’m the multi-legged train munching on leaves all day – that’s all I do, botanists hate me

I’m fuzzy though, could tickle your belly if you let me

They said it’s gonna hurt before it gets better

They said I’m gonna follow Momma’s footsteps and eventually fly far, far away

I won’t deny that it sounds scary

Because the undergrowth is a safe space

Who would want to wrap themselves in a cocoon where you won’t know the night from day?

And your silent screams be drowned out by all in nature that screech louder

But time doesn’t wait for a mere caterpillar

Growth happens through gritted teeth and layers of shed skin

Watch me soar!

But watch me flounder first

I’ll flutter my wings, smile bright as the sun

I’m a flaunt of rainbows, I’m nature’s little kite soaring high and high

My favourite place remains your flower field, botanist, thank you for the sweet feast

As I live my days, as I follow Momma’s footsteps and lay my own eggs, I’m happy to be a part of it all

Happy to leave my own specks of colours to the world

Happy to have been seen and remembered

Happy to have flown and soared and loved

16th March 2025

animal story, butterfly, fiction, poetry, writing
Impio Helped!

In a forest brimming with life, where trees were ancient and animals could talk, there lived a young rabbit called Impio who in human age would be about 12 or so. This rabbit happened to be an ambitious one. Besides tending to his carrot farm in Rabbithood, he would frequent his friends’ homes to help them with random tasks. You see, Impio loved to be helpful, but what he loved even more was to brag about how helpful he was.

One day, Impio visited his friend, Mowo the Tiger’s home. Mowo was the village athlete. Unfortunately, he hurt his left foot the day before when he accidentally smashed his foot in glass.

“Impio, could you help me bandage my foot?” asked Mowo.

“Yes, yes, right on!” Impio replied excitedly, before taking his phone out to take a photo of Mowo’s injured foot. “Now, let’s patch up your foot,” Impio said and began bandaging Mowo’s foot. He did a poor job though, and very soon Mowo’s sore foot looked like it was worse than before…

The next day, Impio got a call from Dira the Deer. Dira said she needed his help fixing her broken window.

“Yes, yes, right on!” Impio replied excitedly, again. This time he took a selfie with the broken window as the background. He managed to put together new glass on Dira’s window but the glass was not put properly, it was dangling sideways.

On the third day, Biru the Bird came knocking on Impio’s door. Biru needed help with gathering sticks for her new nest.

“Yes, yes, right on!” Impio said again. He didn’t even ask where Biru wanted to build her nest, he just straight on grabbed a random stick on the ground and posed in front of the camera.

By now, all of Impio’s friends were already tired of Impio’s “help”, so they confronted him.

Mowo showed Impio his worsening foot angrily, “You put glue instead of ointment on my wound! Now look at my foot!”

Dira showed up with the “new” glass windows that broke again. “There was some wind yesterday and these windows came apart immediately!”

Biru only looked disappointed. She thought Impio could help, but it turned out he only wanted to brag about helping.

Impio, hearing his friends, looked ashamed of himself. He apologised and promised he would do better. He helped to change Mowo’s bandages and ointment until he fully recovered. He went back to Dira’s house and fixed her window properly. He went around the forest to look for suitable sticks and helped Biru to make the perfect nest.

After his deeds, he apologised to his friends again, hoping they would forgive his bad attitude. They smiled and embraced him. They all forgave him, for he turned over a new leaf.

16th March 2025

childrens-stories, fantasy, fiction, short-stories, short-story, writing
The Law of Absolutes

There is no thought, only expression.

There is no emotion, only desire.

There is no faith, only will.

There is no master, only progress.

There is no right, only agreement.

There is no wrong, only disagreement.

There is no success, only path.

There is no path, only choice.

There is no failure, only growth.

There is no growth, only the student.

There is no blockage, only doubt.

—

There is no blockage, only doubt.

There is no doubt, only stagnation.

There is no stagnation, only clarity.

There is no clarity, only insight.

There is no insight, only growth.

There is no growth, only cycles.

There is no cycle, only journeys.

There is no journey, only choice.

There is no choice, only desire.

There is no desire, only will.

Exposition: Perception allows you to see things your way. Different people perceive things differently. If you’re particularly stubborn, it can be difficult for you to open your mind and see things someone else’s way. But don’t mistake your truth for everyone’s truth. There is no absolute truth, only absolute perception.

15th March 2025

poem, poetry, writing
If Flowers Could Talk

If flowers could talk, be they sorrow, be they sweet.

If flowers could talk, I hope they tell you the secret, sacred tales of how every plant came to be.

I hope they share with you their pride when someone approaches, admires them then professes their love.

I hope they share with you their joy when they turn a frown into a smile, a stranger into a pal.

I hope you make them feel safe enough to open up about that time when they’re rudely cut off just because they’re not the prettiest flowers to exist.

I hope they take you on a wild adventure across city landscapes towards the primeval green.

I hope they treat you kindly as their guest. I hope they share with you how to carry softness in your heart and let it become your greatest strength.

13th March 2025

fiction, flowers