It’s a peculiar thing, willingly subjecting yourself to pain. It’s not about seeking injury, nor is there a delight in the sensation itself. Yet, there are moments when the conscious decision is made to endure it. A silent mantra echoes in your mind: This pain is chosen. This pain is desired. This pain is manageable because it’s self-inflicted.
But in the thick of it, doubts creep in. Teeth gritted, jaw clenched, you might find yourself questioning that resolve. Fingers digging into whatever is within reach, a primal urge to counteract the searing discomfort takes over.
This particular brand of pain, the kind you pay for and schedule, is a paradox. It’s a deliberate act, a choice that demands justification. Why willingly undergo this? The answer, it turns out, is layered and complex.
The needle pierces the skin, a repetitive, rhythmic intrusion. Each penetration sends a jolt, a sharp reminder of the process underway. It’s a sensation akin to the dentist’s drill, a nerve-wracking encounter, but here, tears are held back. This is a chosen path, a self-imposed trial. Barely fifteen minutes into what stretches into a three-hour session, the question reverberates with each pulse of the tattoo gun: Why? Why am I doing this again?
Alt text: Close-up of a tattoo needle piercing skin during a tattoo session, emphasizing the deliberate pain and artistry involved in creating permanent body art.
Being geographically untethered, away from the familiar anchors of home – family, reason, the ingrained norms – fosters a different mindset towards permanent decisions. The weight of societal judgment, the inevitable “but what does it mean?” question that will follow you indefinitely, seems to diminish in significance.
The concept of forever itself loses its usual gravity. If permanence were applied to any other aspect of life, it would trigger alarm bells, a sense of claustrophobia. The thought of the next year can induce anxiety, yet the idea of permanent ink, a deliberate scar, barely registers as daunting.
“I just don’t think our generation will ever get tattoos,” a mother might say, voicing a common generational divide.
This disconnect is evident in countless interactions, in the raised eyebrows and probing questions. The need to articulate a swift, intelligent, conversation-ending response has led to considerable introspection. And so, lying on the tattoo artist’s table, distraction is sought in contemplation as the body instinctively resists the foreign invasion.
The paradox persists: the idea of anything else being permanent is unsettling, yet permanent body modification is not.
Years of ink – from the impulsive teenage tattoo at 16 to more considered pieces in later twenties – have revealed a pattern. Tattoos are anchors in the flux of life, points of constancy. At different junctures, a conscious decision was made to embrace permanence, a feeling of control amidst the uncertainties of the future. Was it a genuine sense of control? Not really. Were all choices impeccable? Certainly not. Life, in its entirety, is a mixed bag of decisions, and tattoos are no exception. But is there regret? None.
Travel, much like tattoos, marks a passage of time, often with a bittersweet awareness of its ephemerality. The familiar pang of impending departure, the anxiety of endings, starts as a knot in the throat, spreading its tendrils through the body, culminating in the inevitable emotional release.
Return is anticipated, even assured. But the return will not be a replication. Time marches on, altering landscapes and relationships. Children grow, friendships evolve and scatter. The precise moment, the exact experience, becomes irretrievable. This isn’t cynicism, but observation. Few things in life are truly immutable; even the strongest bonds can be eroded by time’s relentless current. We are carried forward, unable to rewind, but we retain agency over what we carry with us – memories, connections, and yes, even stories etched onto our skin.
This isn’t a pessimistic outlook, but one of empowerment. A craving for change was once perceived as a flaw, a sign of fickleness. But perhaps it’s more unrealistic, even dispiriting, to expect stasis.
Living amidst transient communities, where faces are ever-rotating, sharpens this understanding. It fosters appreciation for both change and constancy. Moving to a new place, building a life from scratch, is often lauded.
But perhaps the real feat isn’t the departure, but the staying. True strength lies in cultivating contentment within any circumstance. This is the lesson being grappled with, the perspective shifting as the return home looms. The privilege of experiencing a different life is acknowledged, deeply valued, as is the life that awaits back home.
The soul sought and found nourishment: culture, language, connection, the vibrant spirit of a new environment. Saying goodbye is an understatement of the emotional weight. But the return will not be a retreat into longing. Instead, memories will be held, distilled, like a snow globe encapsulating a past chapter, a source of reflection, not re-entry. It’s not about endings, but about new beginnings, building upon the foundations laid in these experiences.
So, to family, to elders who question, there isn’t a concise explanation for why a generation embraces permanent ink with seemingly less deliberation than they commit to long-term plans. Yes, perhaps there’s impulsivity in letting friends tattoo us, in the ambiguity of symbolic ink. This philosophy wasn’t pre-tattoo, but it’s a post-tattoo reflection.
Life necessitates leaving things behind, more than we retain. Control over pain is often elusive. Perhaps tattoos are about enduring, about carrying forward something meaningful that might otherwise fade. Or perhaps, they are simply enduring, ridiculous stories we’ll recount, forever.
Alt text: A woman’s arm showcasing various travel-themed tattoos, such as a compass and world map, representing personal journeys and experiences captured in body art.
