I’m covered in tattoos and none of them really mean much.

I guess they’re decorative, it’s often a question that women will ask me: “What do your tattoos mean?” A lot of the time by this stage in the conversation I just don’t care, priorities are shifting.

Anyway, I’m covered in tattoos and maybe a handful of them mean something.

One sits on my left ankle, it’s a date in roman numerals VIII · V · MMXII.

I’ll look at it often, but weirdly it’s a date I’ll tend to forget. It's odd really as it’s the day everything changed.

It marked a turning point in my life.

It’s really taught me that everyone is capable of change, we’ve all got it in us. Sometimes we just need a little help. I certainly did and I still do one day at a time.

On a good day looking at this tattoo will fill me with gratitude and on a bad day it just reminds me why I shouldn’t revisit my old way of life.

I got the tattoo added onto the end of a session as we had a bit of time left. An afterthought I suppose. It’s odd how it’s become perhaps the most significant section of my skin.

Aesthetically I love the simplicity of the tattoo and the questions it asks the viewer.

written by bobbie


Updated: Jul 27, 2020

Well, tattoos for me go beyond simply ink on skin.

A tattoo is the birthmark that life forgot to stamp on my skin.

A tattoo is the painting I decided not to hang on the wall but rather to print on my skin, so that anybody wherever I go might come to see it.

I always say: I have carved into my skin what I have lived.

All my tattoos have their meanings, they have a story, a purpose, nothing was random.

Through my tattoos I express the message, the stories I carry with me.

And I still have a lot of story to carve, to print on my skin.

written by josafa


It's an ellipsis inside speech marks, but tilt your head, left or right, and you'll see (what appears to be) a surprised clown.

It wasn't intentional.

The phenomenon is called pareidolia.

One of my earliest memories is of picking up and examining a stone, and (somehow) hearing a great, roaring silence that filled both me and the stone.

It was a regular stone, as big as an eyeball. I threw it away as easily as I picked it up.

I became addicted to losing myself, made a habit out of it, a ritual, a mess.

Many years later, having (inevitably) lost everything I could lose, I heard that silence again, and remembered the noise the stone made.

An ellipsis (...) is a set of three dots indicating an omission.

The tattoo tells me what I need to hear.

written by si


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