Dystopia II: Lost in our Skin

Part Two is shorter and there is a big part I took out to fix. But The idea is that there is a connection between all these stories. A world inevitably touched by those that are around us. Strangers to strange for each other and therefore even themselves. 

I probably even have dreams of adapting it into a screenplay when it’s done but we will see about that part. Now it is about Telling this story.  A big inspiration of this was when Mpho Seleteng and I took a road trip and she got a tattoo on the way back and there was a spectacle about the placce that really caught me and I was interested in adapting it into the series. Again Gasper Noe really details how I feel so much and Again the cover picture is from 2009’s Enter the  Void.

She remembers the first times.
The times before this time.
But it’s complex for her because time never changed but we all changed. Outgrew time which measured how long they had really existed.
She bites her lower lip as a needle invites itself into her skin. The green ugly light of the tattoo parlour engulfs her, pouring unease on the pistons of her hair which stand up erect. Fear is safety she tells herself. The shallow mist of the dust is revived once every 10 seconds by a fan in the far corner. Drawing up a temporary blindness to her. She looks behind her and finds a black wall painted slightly with the white symbol of a tattoo machine. Painted with a funk last felt in the post modernist crisis of the early 2000s. There is a detailed hand drawn alongside it. With it. As it. A  part of it anatomically. She wonders if people still have any relationship with their hands. People had somewhat become physically connected to their hands but not drawn to them. Alienated from the results of their hands.
She imagines him touching him. Sliding a curious and investigative hand up her dress. It searches unknowingly but knowledgeably. Like a murder had just happened in her vagina. She can’t remember the last time she heard anybody said vagina. It seemed like such a foreign word. He used to say it a lot. Back-


she screams.
Blood begins to crawl slowly down her inner left thigh. Streaming into little rivulets that disappear under the crux of her knee.
“I’m sorry” he apologies.
It’s fine she thinks. But the nostalgia of having her period grows. Her uterus had finally taken the badge of a defiant. One who fights under the natural established order. A systemic governance one can only be born into but never understand. The body giving up under the sourness of the world. She tells herself.
It did not happen…. She tells herself.
“this is bad tattooing ” He remarks. A slight whiff of remorse in his voice.
She holds onto it. The genuine care of a stranger.
She looks back down at the incision on her her thigh. Numbers have sprung from her skin. Representational Figures that carry more than numerical value. She reads the tattoo. Slow at first. Blinking Back tears with every reading. Swallowing the reminders of the ghosts she vows to live with on her skin. The ones from the old days. The days before…
She misses the old days.
The days when tattoos were trivial depth scarred on your skin for your joy. Memories thoughts and spiritual beliefs could be inscribed on the pages of your skin. A time when she still owned her own body.
 10/11/16 14:00 
24/11/24 what is time?
Her skin reads…
Men in Dark clothing.


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