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 ...

The Light That Moves


In the routine of days,
where hours march in patterns—
work, sleep, repeat—
a certain hunger grows.
Not for food,
not for shelter,
but for wonder.

Cinema answers.
A darkened hall,
a beam of light,
shadows that learn to speak.
Here, monotony dissolves;
the ordinary world
gives way to stories
that make us laugh,
that make us weep,
that remind us
we are more than survival.

Entertainment is not escape alone—
it is the mirror we willingly face.
On screen,
we see our desires,
our failures,
our secret selves
projected larger than life,
yet close enough to touch.

Why do we need it?
Because without it,
life becomes a flat page,
a cycle without color.
Cinema folds the dimensions:
it gives texture to dreams,
it lends voice to silence,
it lets us live a thousand lives
while seated in one chair.

In that flicker of images,
in that trembling of sound,
we are reminded:
existence is not only about earning,
about enduring.
It is also about feeling,
about imagining,
about being moved.

The reel spins,
the story breathes,
and for a while—
we are no longer captive to monotony.
We are travelers,
lovers,
rebels,
believers.

When the lights return,
and the world resumes its weight,
something lingers—
a spark carried from the screen
into the long corridors of life.
And that spark is enough
to keep us going,
until the next light moves.