Tales of a Tattler

The hues of distant waters and fading skies have always seemed to belong to the unreachable. Yet every so often, the distance between them and us narrows to the span of a single gaze. Twin Flame is a poem about the rare moment when something vast and seemingly unreachable feels intimately near.

The stories people tell can shape a life. The stories people stop telling can shape it just as profoundly.    The Water Lily - Part II continues to unfolds in the silence between the two.

  Love takes many forms, lingers in many places, and does not always belong where we wish it would. And yet, in letting it move as it must, we find our way back to ourselves. We spend so much time reaching outward, only to realize that love, in all its forms, quietly leads us inward.

  Colours do not know they are auspicious. Flowers do not know they are sacred. Such distinctions belong not to nature, but to the stories people tell about it. And stories, unlike the things they adorn, are forever changing.    The Water Lily - Part I  is one such story of a meaning transformed by the passage of time.

  There are moments when the world feels slightly unsteady, as if something just beyond sight is pressing and pulling at its edges.    A Falling Petal is an ekphrastic engagement with Edvard Munch’s The Scream, resting in that suspended tension between calm and rupture.

 The world is full of small acts of disappearance. Leaves loosen from branches, voices fade from rooms, familiar places change beyond recognition. Yet loss rarely arrives empty-handed; often, it leaves behind a different way of seeing.

 Cities keep secrets well. They bury them beneath traffic, crowds, and the glow of ordinary afternoons. Sometimes, however, a secret slips through a crack—a passing glimpse, a raised voice, a name spoken at the wrong moment—and the world never quite looks the same again.

  Cities rarely pause to ask who is keeping up and who is quietly falling behind. They move, efficient, dazzling, and indifferent, while lives reshape themselves in the margins. What we notice in passing is often just a surface, a face, a gesture, a small detail we never return to. Yet behind such fleeting impressions are stories negotiating dignity, survival, and choice in ways that rarely announce themselves. This is one such story of how a life bends, adapts, and continues, even when it drifts far from what it once imagined.

  There are those who leave, those who stay, and those that hold their places without question. Together, they shape a space where passage, permanence, and purpose quietly converge, and it becomes difficult to tell where freedom ends and design begins.

  Some names don’t disappear; they only stop being spoken aloud. Years pass, lives unfold, and yet certain corners of memory remain strangely untouched.    A school reunion is never just about meeting people again. It is about meeting the versions of ourselves we thought we had outgrown. 

  Not all stillness is absence. Sometimes, it is a quiet gathering of light, of memory, of passing lives brushing against each other without notice. What we call silence may simply be the world speaking in a softer voice.

    In the end, it is not truth that changes, but the way it finally allows itself to be seen.    The Poison and its Antidote - Part III  follows the quiet convergence, where what was once revealed and withheld begins to take a final shape.

   Some objects seem to arrive in our lives already carrying a history we cannot fully know. Their value lies not in rarity, but in the invisible passage of hands, seasons, distances, and small survivals etched into them.    A Tiny Teal Trinket is a poem about a forgotten object quietly existing through time. 

   The Poison and its Antidote - Part II  follows a space where perception and emotion quietly overlap, and where truth rarely announces itself directly. Instead, it lingers in suggestion, shaped as much by what is withheld as by what is revealed.  

  There is something unsettling about beauty viewed from a distance, how it can feel both comforting and unreachable at once. Written as a practice piece for a creative writing class on ekphrastic poetry, this poem grew out of my reflections on The Starry Night , and the strange stillness that exists beneath all its motion.

 Some stories begin not with events, but with the uneasy realization that meaning is never as stable as it appears. This piece was written as part of a creative writing course as an experimental exercise, and it sits outside my usual genre and style.    The Poison and its Antidote  - Part I  is a tale that moves through shifting perceptions and emotional undercurrents, where truth is less declared than inferred, and every certainty carries its own quiet doubt.

  Sometimes a line arrives long before its meaning does. I wrote this poem years ago, without much intention beyond following an unsettling image to its end. Looking back at it now, I find myself drawn less to the idea of poison itself, and more to the forms it chooses to wear: beauty, softness, charm, even familiarity. This remains one of the more unusual themes I’ve explored, which perhaps explains why it stayed with me for so long.

  Change is the only constant. One day we are crawling; the next, we are running freely across a field of grass. We let go of things we once found comfort in and find ourselves embracing paths we never imagined we would take.    Life, however, is not defined by what we gain or lose. It is about learning how to rise, steady ourselves, and dance to life’s ever-changing rhythm.    The Ninth Night is a short story about a woman learning to tune her steps to that rhythm; meeting life, its challenges, and its transformations with grace.

  Nothing in life endures by being seen: the tide advances and withdraws without memory or regard, light fades, footprints vanish, names lose their meanings, and what once felt grand persists only as residue.   Unanchored is a poem attentive to the slow erasure of motion, as grandeur lingers briefly in recollection before yielding to stillness.

  Beginnings are strange things. They don't always indicate arrival. Sometimes, they decide who gets to move forward, who must remain, who steps quietly out of the familiar, and who steps pompously into spaces already designed for them.     The Bride  is a story of once such beginning , the one that is celebrated, photographed, and sealed by ritual. The one that is remembered long after the day had ended.

  We often believe that stillness, when surrounded by comfort, means peace. Yet there are stillnesses that arise not from calm, but from unheard voices and unanswered efforts.    A Longing of Struggle closely listens to the uneasy silences that linger within care. 

  There are days when the sky seems impossibly wide, when every road appears open and every horizon within reach. It is easy, then, to believe that freedom is where one's flight takes one. But between the promise of an open horizon and the act of reaching it lies reality, where the distance travelled and the direction taken are not always the same thing.    Karnan is a story of what becomes of a life when its course is decided long before its destination is understood.

  Love seldom ends cleanly. Most times it drips, stains, and settles into the corners you thought were empty.    Slow Death, Bitter Vinegar by Fatima Kapadia is a poem that explores the slow burn of abandonment, the weight of repetition, and the quiet violence of loving anyway.

  We all chase the perfect morning, the ideal day, the flawless start. Yet life has a way of turning even the most carefully orchestrated plans upside down.   After the Indigo Fades  is the story of a woman's pursuit of a perfect day, and the shades of life between expectation and reality.