Inked

I never used to like tattoos, neither did I care for those who so brazenly marked themselves with these "art" pieces.

It was a crisp winter's morning in August of 2020 and I was busy cleaning the house, picking up little fragments left behind by the children before they went to school. A lost teddy bear, a lonely shoe, a hairbrush, and pyjamas that had the smell of tiny sleepy bodies still clinging to them. Autopilot, one after the other, so deep in thought that I hardly noticed what I was really doing.

I came to a halt and slumped down on the sofa with a tiredness I wish I could say I've never felt before, but it was all too familiar, the smoke that was billowing from the deepest and darkest holes inside of me, filling the spaces in my mind and my memories, clouding every sober thought I could possibly have.

After a 5 minute break I headed to the bathroom to have a shower, undressing myself while looking in the mirror at the curves of my hips and the fullness of my breasts, feeling the softness of my body with my hands, a softness that was so in contrast to what was inside. I stared at my face with half-hearted recognition and realized that it wasn't smoke billowing from inside of me, but that it was the waves of an ocean that had a deepness beyond comprehension.

So much had gone wrong by this point that I started to believe that it had to be right, no? It was at this moment that I realized that I had reached a pivotal point of my existence, the peak of knowing so much yet understanding so little while yearning for some sense to prevail. It was also at this point that I realized that I'd changed so much with every day, week, month and year that went by that I could hardly keep up with myself anymore. I always compare this to sexually maturing and knowing the difference between fucking and making love but also understanding the importance and the pleasure of both, strange - yes, absurd - maybe, but it all makes sense when you finally comprehend the deepest workings of your emotions but also your primal instincts. Take into consideration that this has nothing to do with the act of sex, but more with the act of acceptance of who you are and what you want.

That afternoon I got my first tattoo, and for the first time ever I was contempt in commemorating the person I had become, not with ink, but with the placement of a milestone, a monument and a decision to further explore the depths of myself and to mark that moment forever.

Every now and then when the darkness becomes too much, I undress in front of the bathroom mirror and I read the words that are now forever draped across my back – “There are no beautiful surfaces without a terrible depth” – a small milestone for a deep soul, the realisation that nothing is ever as it seems and that I am bound forever to this drifting vessel that contains the cargo of a million memories. I remember the exact minute when pleasure was derived from pain as my body became a canvas that now exposes a part of my inner being, yet no one will ever know what's underneath the surface, no one will ever know the true workings of my primal instincts, my fears, my dreams, and my thoughts.

Oh what a wonderful place it is to explore on my own....