My tattoo turned a year old today. 365 days earlier, I find myself wandering along the streets of Christchurch, the largest city in South Island, New Zealand, which is practically dormant compared to the bustling city life of Hong Kong or tad boring if you put side by side with all the perils and excitements of Manila. But despite the apparent lack of any energetic vibes, I find the city special. “This is my last day,” I told myself. “Tomorrow, I’ll be leaving this country, moving my way again north of the equator, closer to home.”
It’s probably the swiftest decision I’ve done for myself. It’s not that I always think a lot of times about just about everything. I can definitely say that I’m very decisive, but what I’m trying to say is that I would normally think upon important cases like if I should get a new job, or if I would invest my money in this portfolio, or if this business would be appealing or not. Getting a tattoo is enduring the tattoo. It is the least trivial of decisions.
I vividly remember myself when I said I won’t be having one merely because I would look like a fool when I get old. With my saggy skin still bearing the permanent ink, and perhaps my grandchildren filled with curiosity would confirm on my hippie lifestyle when I was younger. I was protecting my image. People always do, but I just realize I had enough of self-righteousness. It is this complacency I had that brought me exactly to where I was. A young professional getting to the prime of his IT career turned farmer and waiter. That’s a tragedy. I didn’t imagine I would work just for food and shelter (This is funny I’m sounding like a politician). I didn’t have the slightest idea that I would pick more than a ton of apples or walk endless lanes of vineyard in a single day. That’s OK because I also didn’t expect that I would tramp along Tolkien’s Mordor, or jump 15,000 feet from the sky.
When I get older, I’m sure my skin will wrinkle, I can look at my unsteady arms and I have something to remind me that I am well worth it.
