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 ...

Facade


The theatre of faces spills onto the street,
where even the walls wear masks—
rusted grills, peeling paint,
forgotten posters gasping
through broken concrete.

And there she stands,
half in shadow, half in sun,
a performer without stage,
a character without script.
Her body speaks louder than words:
a gesture, a glance,
the smallest rebellion against
a world that would rather
she stay unseen.

This too is a mask—
not of paint, but of posture.
Confidence stitched from survival,
desire draped in hesitation,
beauty framed by neglecting walls.
The city does not applaud,
but it watches,
with silent eyes of passersby,
and crumbling facades
that echo with yesterday’s applause.

Here, performance is not choice—
it is necessity.
In spaces that forget us,
we must remind them we exist.
The mask we wear in institutions
becomes the stance we strike in streets,
a cry for validation not from individuals
but from the city itself.

And perhaps the irony remains:
we perform most honestly
when no audience is promised.
A young figure before broken walls,
a smile trembling against decay,
an act of defiance
against the script of silence.

For in every mask,
whether painted, stitched, or struck in stance,
lies the same truth:
the hunger to be seen,
the need to matter,
even if only for a fleeting moment
in a world that keeps moving past.