Edges of the Head

Image
  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 ...

Intermission


 The mask was worn,

the pose was struck,
the city glanced—
and for a moment,
she was seen.

But recognition is heavy,
a flame that warms
then burns.
So comes the quiet hunger:
to slip away,
to fold the body back
into anonymity,
to breathe without the weight
of eyes.

And how simple it is—
this vanishing.
For every passerby
is imprisoned in their own routine:
the man with briefcase and deadlines,
the child tugging a mother’s sari,
the shopkeeper counting change
with a tired thumb.
They do not linger.
They cannot.

So she leans, she rests,
on a staircase, on a wall,
on the fractured skin of a city
that offers no comfort,
yet enough space
to hide in plain sight.

The performance dissolves
into relaxation,
the stance into slouch,
the stage into pavement.
And here,
with no script, no spotlight,
only the hum of a city
too busy to care,
she finds her freedom.

For escape need not be distance—
it can be stillness,
a pause amidst traffic,
a breath within chaos.
The world is too occupied
to notice the curtain fall.

And in that neglect,
a gift:
to rest anywhere,
to belong nowhere,
to be unseen—
finally,
on her own terms.