Ink

I stare at the character - wondering if this is the correct thing to do.  Asking it to exist forever in my skin seems like a big step.  Would the two of us get along as we both aged?  Were we compatible enough to coexist in the same body.  Was I sure I wanted to explain it over and over again?

The bite of the needle keeps me focused, unforgiving in it's insistence that you pay attention; the buzz keeps my nerves jangling.  The sudden stillness of the air shocks me; the artist pauses long enough to gather more ink, wipe the blood from my hip and grease the needle. The soft sting of my raw skin comforts me and I feel an immediate relaxation through every single muscle.  Then, I feel his hand touch my hip, the buzzing starts up again - bringing my nerves with it, and I tense immediately, preparing for the return of the bite.

When it's over, I stand up - feeling slightly smug and a tad victorious.  I've got a new badge - a new addition to my body.  There, on my hip, is a new piece of jewelry - but one that won't snag on my cloths or break when accidentally jerked.  I don't have to worry about it ever matching my outfit or display it for others.  I'm content to know it's just there - decorating my skin, dancing when I move.

For me, tattooing about making a concept a living part of you.  It's about taking a thought into yourself so deeply with it that you can no longer feel the difference between you and it - so that it moves when you moves, grows as you grow and changes as you change.  The concept has now changed you visibly as much as it has changed your soul.