I just brought in the last of my supplies. I’m standing in the middle of a small room, wearing my favorite skinny jeans, plain grey V-neck, and my converse. My hair is pin straight falling in my face, as it always does. I feel so relieved and blissful, anxious and scared, yet prepared at the same time. It’s exhilarating as the rest of my life is unfolding right in front of my eyes. The walls are black, with dark red trim and swirling white designs. My artwork is hung all over the walls by my station, portfolios out on the counter, and piercings in the glass case. It smells of ink and tattoo goo, with a slight hint of the outside air. The door has just swung shut for the last time before I open it to the public. Not too long after this moment, I hear a tattoo gun, my tattoo gun, as I begin inking my first customer. I can almost taste the success. I feel content with my life. For the first time, everything seems to be going right. That gun in my hand sets me free. Everything going on in my life just freezes and the world becomes quiet. It feels as if I have stepped through the looking glass into another domain. This is now my kingdom and my station my throne.
I can hear the hard beat screams of Suicide Silence from the stereo in the corner. This is calming to me, in a weird way that makes me feel alive. I’m not only tracing the lines, I’m feeling the artwork. My hand is feeling the next curve, the next line, the next stop. This is not just a job for me to dread every morning. It’s a passion. I’m not just going to draw on people. I’m there to converse and to lace a chapter of their lives on them forever. I’m there to hear the story behind every drop of ink and every piercing of the needle.
This is my life. This is my dream. This is my success.