Someone I once knew used to joke and say tattoos are not of the God, you’ll get into Heaven no doubt, but the parts of you which are tattooed will not. This would always make me laugh, it is incredibly absurd and entirely unjustified, yet still it makes me giggle. And then I went and got sixty-eight tattoos.
Last week someone who I currently know, posted a beautiful piece of writing about the whimsical and heartfelt individuals behind her indelible ink. The people she wrote about were strangers to me but she articulated the meaning behind a simple phrase so accurately and beautifully that they felt like mine, even if it was just a borrowed memory.
She also gave me the idea to write about my tattoos. About a year ago I got sixty-eight freckles scattered and tattooed all over my front and my back. They are sprinkled across my stomach like fairy bread, dotted over my chest, collar bone, shoulders and lower back. They were no easy feat, two tattoo artists turned me down and the correct shade took a while to find, every different freckle has a unique pigment and colour after all.
It was an odd request I admit but simply put, I think freckles are incredibly beautiful. Growing up in the summer I remember sitting on the faded carpet and watching as the sun danced upon my mothers skin, the constellation of beauty spots & freckles were like a million solar systems to my tiny mind. I was thoroughly disappointed when I realized that my mother had not passed this on to me. My skin was bare, as pure and as silky as milk.
So although at the time my body looked like a thousand bees had mistaken me for honey, and the tattoo artists thought I was slightly odd. I cannot wait to sit in the sun with bare shoulders and dream about the hundreds of worlds painted on my back.