Edges of the Head

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  A head is not merely bone and skin, but a chamber of storms, where thought churns like restless seas and colours spill beyond their edges. What can the brain contain? It holds infinities, yet bends beneath routines: the labour of survival, the weight of names, the endless tally of tasks that tether imagination to necessity. Once there was a freedom— a childhood bright with unscripted hues, where colours did not ask permission to scatter, and play was the only labour. But thresholds arrive, drawn by institutions, by timetables, by the slow narrowing of sky into ceiling. Here the child learns to sit, to raise a hand, to speak in sequence, to dream only in sanctioned hours. The head adapts. It absorbs order as it once absorbed wonder, and the saturation of colour dims into function. Yet at the edges, still, the threshold glimmers— a reminder that within the skull’s dark theatre there lingers a pulse of rebellion, a fragment of the child unwilling to be tamed. And perhaps that ...

Bars in the Stars

 

Behind the lattice of iron,
a face peers outward—
not beast, not alien,
but kin.

The eyes,
dark as the void between galaxies,
hold a question older than empires:
Why do we build cages,
when the universe is so wide?

For millions of years
we were wanderers,
one tribe among the dust of Africa,
our boundaries nothing more
than horizons waiting to be crossed.

Yet somewhere along the way,
we built prisons—
for animals,
for each other,
for minds.

Skin became a wall,
color became a chain,
and we forgot
that all of us
are but variations of starlight,
coded in carbon,
animated by chance.

If only we could see ourselves
as this captive does:
not divided by borders or races,
but united in yearning,
longing for the open sky.

Perhaps then,
our greatest rebellion against the cages we build
would be kindness.

And perhaps, one day,
we will surpass the need for bars at all,
and walk together—
not as tribes,
not as races,
but as one species,
learning, loving,
under the patient gaze
of the stars.