Það eru margar leiðir til að sýna stuðning við viðburð, en 29 ára gamli leikmaðurinn Sigurður Grétar, betur þekktur undir nickinu Steypa, ákvað að ganga alla leið. Hann lét flúra á sig Skjálfta táknið...

A few weeks ago I had to lie nearly bare-chested in an aesthetician’s office to have one of my tattoos removed. Yes, yes, I know if you’re reading this you are probably thinking I should have listened years ago when I was told not to add an almost permanent modification to my skin, but here we are now and it’s too late. Firstly, one thing you should know about me is that I don’t listen. Secondly, I can’t get into a time machine and stop myself from doing it in the first place, so just keep your opinions to yourself. Honestly, I don’t think I would if I could in any case. I do not, in any way, regret having this particular piece of artwork added to my catalogue. Given the chance to redo my entire life, I’d do it all over again. I just think it has served its purpose, and I am ready to let it go. This does not mean I am now becoming a saint. In fact, I will probably still get inked a few more times while I am alive, because this life is short and precious and unpredictable. Each one of my 13 pieces means something to me (yes, I know the number is shocking, feel free to take a moment to process that information). Each of them tells its own story from the book that is my convoluted life. There’s the one I got for that heartbreak, another when I suffered greatly, one I just thought was cute and has no other significance, one for my star sign, one for my passions, and another that’s a reminder to slow down and appreciate life for what it is. If there is one thing I’ve learnt from being a tattooed person is that I can do whatever the hell I want. Many have tried to put me in a box. This one lame uncle of mine once asked me why I’m not sweet like my mother, and I still think about that and laugh. I literally lean back and guffaw when I think of all the people who shackle themselves for no reason. They literally put themselves in cages and clip their own wings so they can fit into some stupid made-up standard. There are no rules to this life thing. You were born alone, you exist alone, and one day you will die alone. Only you know what’s best for you, and I think I needed to do all I’ve ever done and experienced this crazy existence to be the person I am. For instance, I went through something really painful a few years ago. It really broke my spirit and had me questioning the universe, God, myself. I actually thought the pain would drive me mad. But it didn’t. Instead, this really crazy concept for a thriller novel popped into my head. If I had not been in so much pain, cried so much, I would never have had the brilliant idea. I’ve written that book now and I’m trying to find a publisher, but that’s a story for another day. The point is, I can’t regret my past because there’s nothing I can do about it. I can only look to the future and build on what I have now. My tattoos have really carried me in a similar way. It’s almost like alchemising your pain into something else. Other forms of alchemy include transforming your trauma into some form of art or creativity, or exercising to get your endorphins up. But a little needle prick could also do a good enough job for as long as it needs to. Then one day, you find yourself lying back on one of those surgical tables, looking up into the eyes of a lovely lady with a laser in her hand. The piece of art served its purpose. It took the hurt and turned it into a lesson learnt, a reminder of my own power, a chance to take back control of myself and my emotions. Anyways, I’ve never been to therapy, so this might also all be wrong, but as a writer I can’t help but find a way to turn every little thing into prose. This is my process. I live, I write, I experience, and I do so while trying hard to regret as little as possible. Because everyone told me I wouldn’t be able to change my mind if I ever outgrew my tattoos, and they were wrong. People told me to choose a more serious career, and now I’ve got an 80 000-word manuscript and I can (not even joking) die happy. Funny how that works out, right? The post Please Keep the ‘I Told You So’ to Yourself, Thanks appeared first on The Namibian.

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