My first ink

I've always wanted to get tatted. I had ideas and designs, I've targeted time and laid down a timeline, and I have googled a decent amount of tattoo shops in and out of Manila, ever since I was in high school. Many has built their idea of tattoos over a preconceived notion that people who displays them are dirty, unprofessional, and untrustworthy. It is a taboo to the society I unfortunately belong in. 

But I've always classified the world as art. Everything around me I've labeled as art. From the moment I wake up to the time I go to sleep, is poetry in motion to my eyes. That's why I cling to certain material objects because I see myself as an artist, whose tools and instruments influence their masterpieces. I look forward to the future, with or without me, where things I've touched and breath upon, would hold a certain price unimaginable, of certain descriptions unexplained. All that is around me, what I wear and where I spend my time and money to, is my legacy. People will remember me as the artist who held a distinct brush of her own. 

I rebel at the idea that makeup is invented to impress, but express. To me, it doesn't hide imperfections. Instead, it uplifts your soul, like an artpiece. I am a walking piece of art, who has to bend for the pointless belief of the majority.

I didn't understand why I wanted to share my tattoo experience. I never once talked about literal things. Usually I talk in riddles, words intentionally mishandled to promote mystery, which is by the way what I live by. But like I always do, I integrate poetry into everything. Let this be of no exception.

I've never felt so committed to anything before, not this much. When I decided to get the tattoo, I knew exactly what I wanted, where I wanted it, how big I wanted it, and so. I think we can all agree, as I did mention a friend before, that in life, sometimes, you never really get ready for anything. Sometimes, the best way to extinguish doubts is to just wing it.  

Not this time.

I absolutely wanted it.

I have prepared for it.

When you wanted something so bad, you don't care how painful or dangerous it is. You just want it.

When I started driving, and M took me to the road for the first time, he asked me, "Aren't you scared?" And I replied, "Of course I am. But I wanted this."

If you cower behind such fear, it will consume you. And then it is a domino process. It will eat from inside, poison your guts to the point where you absolutely lose your confidence to do anything. And you'll just weep and cry and blame the world because you're a sad little kid who's afraid of the dark. 

I'm telling you, get out there. Invest in experiences. Learn to ride the roller coaster of life. 

People asked me if it was painful. And I never knew how to answer it. Perhaps my design wasn't as intricate, or the location wasn't as fragile, but I should have at least felt a tinge of pain, right?

But nothing, absolutely nothing.

And I don't know if that's normal, given the circumstances I got it from, or am I completely just out of ordinary. Perhaps the former, but let me favor the latter. 

When I booked an appointment to the tattoo artist, I knew what I was getting into. I knew it will be permanent. I knew it will hurt. I knew people will judge me. No one enters something blindly. That's just stupid.

But I suppose I can give you this answer. 

Did it hurt?

No.

Why?

Because my mind formulated pain in such extremity. I've set the bar for myself, and conditioned my mind to disregard anything else below the line. So when the needle touched my skin, and it was underrated, my mind took over and numbed whatever tiny speck of pain there was. 

It refused to categorize pain as something less than I've set up for it.

Of course I've felt the needle tracing the letters on my wrist. I've felt the gravity of the device, but it didn't hurt. 

So, why didn't it hurt?

Because I didn't allow it to hurt me.