My first ink experience was 26 years ago.
Will never forget my parent’s faces, over a tiny butterfly on ankle.
Dad would say ‘do you want to be a walking newspaper’
After 18 months of metastatic cancer and home hospice he parted to a dimension of familiarity, lush greenery filling his lungs with oxygen.
I grieved, and edited every square inch of my arm, as my mental health spiraled.
At times I regret the crowdedness of colors.
A tabloid – I suppose.
Tattoos certainly do tell the story of your life. It’s why I’ve been unable to commit to getting even one. I want to but what would I choose? And would it mean the same thing to me ten years down the line as it does today? Would it mean anything at all? And assuming that’s a picture of your tats then I hope you won’t mind me saying that I think they’re pretty awesome!
Your entire thread is correct. All stages of life is like a chapter. Cohesively intertwining. For me what’s on my arm is nothing that I am proud of; it has grief and anguish and it will forever be there as a reminder. So of course there is a bit of regret. But this is my story, with no adaptation. Yes it’s me, on the image. Thanks for the follow !
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Arrows & Metaphors 
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