Today, in the spur of the moment, I got my very first tattoo.
I have been thinking about getting one since forever, but could never gather enough determination to get one. In retrospective, I think I only liked the idea of getting a tattoo.
Deep within, I hesitated, I never sat down to plan it all out. One part of me wanted to do it for the glamorous image, the somewhat meaning. The other part, the larger one was sacred that I would make a mistake. Have I thought this through? Is it good enough to be on me for the rest of my life. “The rest of my life” sounds so intimidating.
I guess I didn’t love myself enough before. I guess the fear of commitment to my decision comes from the lack of sincerity.
I guess I wanted to be in my comfort bubble
Now. I burst another bubble.
The process lasted about 30 minutes. It felt like the first time I hit the gym back in 8th grade, or the first time I jerked off in 9th grade, or the first time I had sex.
The novel sensation brought me through the spectrum of emotions. I felt the pain of needle chipping away bits of my flesh first. I could handle it, easy peasy. I felt the a rising early form of regret. I concentrated to shut my mind, to yield, gave up and surrender to whatever feeling it offers.
Then a sense of relief came. I felt at ease with the pain. I felt the breeze sneaking in through the window. I saw the passion flairing through my tattoo artist’s eyes. I got out of my head and into the real world.
My social-based perception got a bit thinner, replaced by actual, personal experience. In other words, getting a tattoo is not that big of a deal.
If you do it for yourself and not to impress anybody, you can never go wrong.
I’m happy with my new tattoo.