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 ...

Pinnacle


The city reveals its skeleton

in the tangled veins above our heads.
Clusters of wire,
impossible to unbraid,
hang like thought itself—
civilisation gathered
into restless strands of power,
a nervous system stretched across the sky.

They shiver with current,
their hum merging with the silence of streets,
as though the heavens themselves
were woven into our inventions.
And we, below,
look up at this pinnacle,
believing the cluster is order,
believing the tangle is progress.

Yet every height is fragile,
every crown can spark and fail.
Still we name it civilisation:
a forest of poles,
a canopy of wires,
a fragile web carrying our voices,
our lights, our illusions.

And in their dark reflection,
the pinnacle trembles—
not as triumph,
but as question.