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 ...

Dreams Beneath Concrete

 

There is a silence
that follows knowledge—
not the peace of wisdom,
but the weight of knowing
what cannot be changed.

Hands skilled in craft,
minds sharpened by study,
hearts rehearsed in hope—
all find themselves
pressed against glass walls,
mirrored towers,
streets that loop endlessly back
into the same fatigue.

The city is a jungle
not of trees,
but of steel.
It grows upward,
but not outward;
its roots are cement,
its fruits are promises
never ripe enough to eat.

Here, skill has no stage,
and knowledge has no listener.
Ideologies preach success,
progress,
ambition—
but their temples are gated,
their altars reserved.
And so captivity is not in chains,
but in the endless repetition
of possibility deferred.

What is left, then,
but to fold the body into stillness?
To stretch on the mattress,
or the pavement,
and surrender to dreams—
where towers dissolve into open skies,
where captivity thins into imagination,
where the concrete cannot follow.

Sleep becomes the only rebellion:
a retreat into worlds
where achievement needs no permission,
and the spirit, at least in slumber,
remains free.