life

Tag: dailyprompt-1884

  • Ink and skin.

    A mark on the skin—
    Not just for the world to see,
    But for the self to remember.

    The Moment That Demands to Be Kept

    Some moments in life slip away quietly, dissolving into the blur of passing days. Others refuse to be forgotten.

    A name whispered in the dark, a streetlight flickering as you say goodbye, the sound of the ocean at 3 AM when there’s no one else around.

    There are things that change you. Things that carve themselves into your bones, even if you don’t want them to.

    A tattoo is just a way of making sure you don’t forget.

    The Weight of a Mark

    People ask, what would you get? Where would you put it?

    But that’s not the real question. The real question is: what is worth carrying forever?

    Some would choose words—a phrase that once saved them, a name that never left them.
    Some would choose symbols—a reminder of who they were, or who they still hope to be.
    Some would choose nothing at all—not on the skin, at least. But inside, they are already covered in invisible ink.

    If I were to choose, it would be small. Something only I would notice. Maybe on my ribs, where breath meets bone. A line from a book I never finished. A shape that only means something to me.

    Not to prove anything. Not for anyone else to see.

    Just to know that it’s there.

    Wabi-Sabi and the Impermanence of Ink

    Wabi-sabi teaches that nothing is ever truly permanent.

    Even ink fades.
    Even skin changes.
    Even the things we swear we will always remember eventually soften at the edges.

    But that doesn’t make them less meaningful.

    A tattoo is not about holding onto a moment forever—it is about honoring the fact that it was there at all.

    Lessons in the Art of Remembering

    • Some things are worth carrying. Choose carefully.
    • A mark on the skin means nothing if it doesn’t also leave a mark on the soul.
    • Fading does not mean forgetting.
    • Not all tattoos are visible. Some of us wear ours in the way we move, the way we love, the way we survive.
    • You don’t need ink to remember what shaped you. But sometimes, it helps.

    The Skin, the Ink, the Story That Stays

    Maybe I’ll get it one day.

    Maybe I won’t.

    But I like the thought of it—of something small, something quiet, something meant only for me.

    A reminder. A promise. A proof of something real.

    A mark that says: I was here. And for a moment, it mattered.

  • The Ink That Stays.

    The tattoo parlor smelled like antiseptic and cigarette smoke, the kind of scent that clung to your clothes long after you’d left. The walls were covered in flash designs—dragons curling around limbs, delicate script coiled over collarbones, symbols whose meanings had been lost to time.

    He sat in the chair, tracing the outline of a napkin doodle with his fingertips. The artist—a man with tired eyes and hands that had inked hundreds of stories into strangers’ skin—watched him with quiet patience.

    “You sure about this?” the artist asked. Not as a warning, just a formality.

    He nodded.

    The buzzing of the needle started slow, a vibration that settled somewhere in his ribs before finding his skin. He exhaled, feeling the first sharp sting, the kind that made his body tense before surrendering to it.

    It was small, the tattoo. Just a word. One only he would understand. He could have written it on paper, tucked it into the folds of an old book, whispered it to himself on sleepless nights. But paper tears, books are lost, voices fade.

    Ink stays.

    Some moments refuse to be forgotten. They surface in the middle of a crowded train station, in the scent of someone else’s cologne, in the sound of an old song playing through a café’s worn-out speakers. A name whispered in the dark. A streetlight flickering as you say goodbye. The ocean at 3 AM when there’s no one else around.

    There were things he wished he could let go of. And then there were the things he never wanted to lose.

    The tattoo was for the latter.

    The needle moved in slow, steady strokes, pressing memory into skin. The past, distilled into something tangible. He thought about the people who had left, the places he could no longer return to. About the conversations that ended too soon and the ones that had dragged on long after they should have.

    A tattoo isn’t a cure. It doesn’t fix anything. But it gives shape to something shapeless, weight to something that might otherwise slip away.

    The artist wiped away the excess ink, tilted his head to examine the work. “That’ll hold,” he said simply.

    He nodded again, staring down at the fresh mark on his ribs. His skin was raw, burning slightly, but beneath the sting, something had settled. Not closure. Not relief. Just a quiet understanding.

    Some things are meant to be carried. Some things are meant to stay.

    He pulled his shirt back on, paid in crumpled bills, stepped outside. The night air was cool against his skin, the city stretching out in front of him.

    And somewhere beneath his clothes, beneath the layers of time and distance and everything unspoken—

    A mark that whispered: I was here.