Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist fell into my queue six weeks ago by the hand of my brother, Logan, and quickly rose to the top of my list of favorites. The 208-page narrative recounts a young boy’s prophetic dream, and his journey across the desert in search of treasure; it’s a story of self-discovery, spirituality, and destiny. Simply written, but deeply moving.
Six weeks ago, I was inked.
After dizzying myself with concept-crafting, note-taking, researching artists, perusing portfolios, and coming to terms with having my body permanently marked, I offered myself as a human canvas for my blooming heart.
Since my breach of adulthood, I’ve surprised my peers with my lack of ink. Maybe they saw my nose ring as a precursor for something more daring. Perhaps a tattoo was expected because of my, er, free-spirited nature. Maybe because, as an artist, it made sense to have something as creative as my brain displayed on my body. Or perhaps it’s my affinity for the bold. Whatever the reason, it surprised them.