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 ...

Bent Silence


A body leans into itself,

curved like a question mark
posed to the forest.

Feathers inscribed with hieroglyphs of flight
fold inward,
as if the sky were only memory,
as if ascent had become a burden
too heavy to carry.

The beak dips,
an arrow without target,
pointing not outward but down—
toward the ground
where roots whisper
that even wings must bow.

Here is a paradox of grace:
a creature sculpted for distance,
pausing in stillness,
not soaring, not claiming,
but listening.

Perhaps civilisation too
is a posture like this—
bright patterns, delicate balance,
a quiet attempt to hold dignity
amidst branches that entangle,
amidst a world that does not answer
the questions we ask with our bodies.

And so it waits,
not defeated,
but contemplative,
as though silence itself
were the truest form of flight.