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 ...

Second Skin


A body steps into light

and ceases to be body.
It becomes movement,
becomes sound,
becomes the shimmer of presence
woven into the eyes of others.

What is human here?
Not sweat, not breath,
but the rhythm that guides
without thought—
a current long rehearsed,
now flowing as if eternal.

The performer forgets the weight of flesh,
forgets hunger,
Experience bends the body
into instinct,
and instinct into grace.

It is not effort,
but inevitability:
gesture following gesture,
voice finding its place,
as though the stage itself
were the source of life.

Here, humanness dissolves.
There is no “I,”
only the continuum of act and echo,
a vessel carrying not self
but performance.

And yet—
perhaps in this forgetting,
there is also remembering:
that to be human
is to vanish into roles,
to give oneself over to ritual,
to become more than flesh
by surrendering to what the flesh has learned.