Creative Prompt: Tattoo Becoming

Having a tattoo is becoming more and more common. I have three of my own, two of which I designed as they are very personal to me. Even though it is becoming more acceptable to have some body ink, I still encounter some surprised "oh my's" and even a few "why would you do that to yourself?" *insert eyeroll*


It's called creative self expression, don't let it ruin your day Nancy.


Anyhoo...


With the notion of "creativity" in mind - in the sense that maybe this was art just waiting to be born - I though this prompt to be very interesting.

 

WRITE A STORY ABOUT A TATTOO

FROM THE VIEWPOINT OF THE TATTOO

 

Before the ink formed I was just a little thought. An idea that had tickled the edges of her mind in quiet moments of bravado for years. She'd smile and sigh. Visions forming and then before the goosebumps had barely diminished; I was once again banished to the corners of that fickle mind.


My fragmented self sitting with a longing to be fully birthed. To be seen beyond lined pages or in worn journals in various stages of completion. Erased and reformed over and over until each bold scribble become a gnawing symbol of teased hope. A new rendering, faint but there! Only to feel the rubber ended nature of my existence once more. Cruel fate that I should feel so real and yet remain hidden.


Just now, a cover has opened and let in the light. A few added lines. A smudge of colour that was new... but I wasn't falling for it. Not today! I can't be fooled when the world still feels dark, though somewhat shaken. A trembling between the hard covers and... wait?! What's this?

A light brighter than ever before. It makes my lines shine so vividly. I have never been THIS before. A light touch traces my form; smoothing a line that was crooked (that always had bothered me). The edge clear now. I am distinct and the wanting burns along my silhouette.

This is not her touch - this touch has confidence. A boldness that makes me want to leap from the pages that have held my true form captive for so long.


There is no hesitancy as it coaxes me forth. No pause as my shape emerges stark upon the pale unlined canvas. This new home is much softer. It seems to breath it's life into me, flowing into the artists fingers and into me. Dare I hope? Is this some new blinding torture that will only lead to darkness again? I can't go back! How to half live upon those wretched lines and suffocating pages, after I've touched this new home. The light draws nearer and there it is. Me. I am born!


My freedom spilled in ink that will endure forever. Careful now! That shading in the centre is difficult and requires the most steady hand. Oh please don't mess it up now; I'm so close to becoming what I was meant to be. What if it's all wrong and no one sees me for what I am? Birthing is so hard. I must be patient. Trust in the power flowing from his fingers through the needle and into my skin. Yes, he knows the importance of Time. To do it right so that I might endure. And I suddenly realize how patient and loving my creator was also. To not quit until that vision poked through the mist and landed true on the page. All my lines not merely traced, but born of something greater. Inspiration and memory merged.

Finally I am real. Look how happy she is. We glow we two! She gave me life and now I will go where she goes. No more darkness and shadow, but this brightness of being she has given. No more lonely existence in a drawer, a backpack, or a shelf. We are one now. Together we are Art.

 








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