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 ...

Painted Eternity

 


In fragile strokes of mineral blue,
and threads of gold upon handmade paper,
a story breathes —
not of the moment lived,
but of the moment eternal.

The god swings,
his body weightless as the cosmos,
yet bound by rope and pigment,
his gaze drawn across the courtyard
to the woman who sits, jeweled,
her devotion painted into posture.

This is not just art,
it is a vault —
a chamber where longing, ritual, and myth
are pressed flat into color,
where human hands attempt
what time will always undo:
to stop the fleeting,
to hold a glance,
to make desire endure.

What is a painting,
but an archive of yearning?
A testament to our refusal
to let the divine dissolve into dust.
And so we sketch our gods
with mortal urgency —
that they may outlive us,
and we, in turn,
may be remembered through them.