Monday, 6 June 2016


I was home alone and re-watched Under The Skin. A truly remarkable piece of work, which sent me, again, into a round of deep self analysis. It has been noted before that if you stare for too long into the abyss, the abyss starts looking into you. But when our eyes are pointed at the mirror, and our hands are applying pigment to our face, or combing our hair in preparation to “go out” - to interact with that segment of time-space fabric that isn't us, that is "outside" of us - we can never even know what is it, exactly, looking back at us. We don't have the name for it. What is this force that renders us almost lethargically oblivious to everything outside of us, while at the same time, paradoxically, guiding our way into obtaining the most marketable form? And all those bodies, thrown into the flames of desire, don't have a clue what cooks on that fire. Could it be Aphrodite's dinner? Or are we only the fuel of the combustion engine which pushes forward the vehicle of discovery along a self-paving road of continuous replication?

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