Marks

I like wrinkles; pathways to frowns and smiles and cigarettes in the sun. I like scars; keloid notches of fire and metal and trauma. I like tattoos; gritted-teeth art inherited from tribes and mutated into rotary machines. I like things that make a blank canvas with genetically correct features look more interesting.

 

To say that the human body is a temple is pompous and self-important. Life is a tempestuous, unpredictable journey that weathers and changes people, and the human body is a chronicle of that. It’s not a pure slab of polished stone that stands unmovable in the eye of the storm, as unnatural as a sixty-year-old with a smooth neck and perky breasts.

 

 

 

People who say, ‘That tattoo is going to look terrible when you’re older’ haven’t thought their argument through. Do we go through life with the purpose of preserving a beautiful-looking corpse?

 

No one grows old and wishes they stayed at home more.

 

We can – and should – do what we can to look and feel our best. But to treat wrinkles and scars and signs of ageing as something to be reviled rather than stories of a life of adventures and experiences is to admit that your own fear of going out there and really living is being projected onto other people.

 

Don’t end up as a beautiful-looking corpse. There are better things to do with your life.