I am not actually a tattoo enthusiastic. I don’t know what
counts as one. But shortly after I got my first tattoo, I realized that it’s a
procedure to help me face certain parts of myself, that I’d been trying to
convince myself that there wasn’t, parts from the past, possibilities from the
future, and something that has always been there.
At first, I only wanted one medium on my forearm where I
could hide under sleeve when needed. I chose red because I like the color and I
thought it might age better with Asian skin tone. I chose peony because it’s a
kingly flower and I like the legend how one winter night it refused to bloom
for Empress Wu and got banished from her court.
The next morning, I woke up with a startle as if finally
realizing that I simply couldn’t go back.
And there is no
going back. I went back to get one more, yet another, yet another, now I got
seven peonies and still I want more. I’m now planning to get my arms full. But
it costs money. I would have to wait.
I am probably not a
very good customer. I feel so guilty that I haven’t given the artist any space
to do what he wants. I haven’t even asked him what he likes to do. But it’s so
hard to yield, and I can’t help but being selfish.
It’s a sickening
thrill, to know you have something so beautiful on your skin, under your
clothes. All you need to do is to look, and then you’ll find yourself. You’ll
never get lost.
That, of course,
it’s not real. But we are not talking about statistic here.
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