So tattoos, they’re a bit like marmite. some people love them some people hate them. Me, I’m a lover. (And marmite too, love that stuff) Of them on me, of them on others, of them on anything they can fit on. The backstories behind them if they mean something and the ones that people just choose because they like the art. I love them all. Even the tramp stamp one I have on my back. It was my very first one I got. I drew it. I designed it. I was 17. I was the happiest person ever. My dad took me for my first one and I became hooked ever since. So we’ve visited the fact I “don’t look like someone that would have tattoos” theory in a previous blog *tries to remain calm when reliving the conversation* for me I seem to get a tattoo at turning points in my life, when life has chucked stuff at me I have dealt with. My mum laughs when something happens to me and jokes if I’m going to get another one (she really doesn’t like them, which is funny because she’s the only one in our family who doesn’t have one….) Some girls cut their hair I get tattoos. (I did get a perm once and that went horribly wrong so it just proves I should stick to tattoos when I’m going through some shit. I should Leave my hair alone)
I would love to have a sleeve done but because of my job I can’t. So I’m getting a thigh sleeve done instead!!!! (Where there’s will….) people can be so judgy about tattoos and having them on show. I always get asked “what will you do when you’re 80 covered in tattoos in a hospital bed…??” My answer “I’ll be chatting about them to the person in the bed next to me because they’ll have them too” I doubt at that age I’ll be wearing crop tops and hot pants, I’ll more than likely be wandering around the ward with the back of my gown undone!!
These tattoos tell a story of a life that’s been lived. All the times gone by, visible marks to cover invisible scars
A lion for bravery, a compass to guide. The dogs are present forever by my side.
A lyric that echos my thoughts “I was made for this place, I was made for you.”
Between the thorns a heart that stays locked and a swallow that returns to its flock.
A shamrock shaped freckle and a hard working bee, these visible tattoos mean something to me.
And then there’s you.
My invisible tattoo.
my anchor, my lifeline, my uncharted course. You’re Always there etched in my thoughts.
Forever part of me, you’ll always be.
To the wonderful, beautiful beast that is you. You’re My only unseen, hidden, invisible tattoo.
I am the sort of person who feels tattoos are disrespect to the body which is a living temple you want to keep pure or rejuvenate when life gets you down, not tag it with a permanent memory of what happened (or a passing interest you may not care the same about when you’re retired). In the time of the pyramids, tattoos might have been applied to mark those who were doomed for this or honored for that. And, they were applied to the dead to record events in the person’s history. But, those who were fortunate enough to have a sarcophagus had those markings on their coffins instead of their bodies. Prisoners would be stamped with tattoos, too, so they’d forever be sentenced and not lost like some sheep.
I’d be okay with a small tattoo or two on a lover or friend, maybe even “sleeves” if they were as tasteful as the ones I saw one gal with who had flowering vines all the up her arms. But, as you mention, and as I suspect, too many get tattoos to either mark some sort of death or to get over some hardship/bump in the road instead of binging on food/drink or punching a punching bag to death. I’d rather burn the bridges and kiss the pains goodbye. You’d rather put up memorials on your body for everyone to question the rest of your life.
But, again, your prerogative.
Indeed it is. And I’ll continue to do so. Lots of judgy people in this world. Need to give them something to judge