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 ...

Etched in Stardust and Stripes


 Once, before cities and satellites,

a human hand reached for charcoal and stone,
to draw not just an animal,
but a mirror of its own awe.

The tiger—
a furnace of muscle,
a solar flare in fur and fang,
its roar shaking the marrow of night.

And yet, here it lingers—
flattened into lines,
captured in scratches and firelight,
a cosmos of orange and black.

What drove those hands?
Fear? Reverence?
Or the deep knowledge
that in this beast’s gaze
was the same ancient hunger
that burns in us all?

In those stripes,
the tribe carved its memory into eternity:
the reminder that we, too,
are animals—
but animals who remember,
who etch,
who dream.

For every mark on stone is a declaration:
We were here.
We saw the tiger.
And in the seeing,
we became more.