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I love the thought of a permanent marking being on my body. I love knowing this beautiful reminder can never be washed off, no matter how hard I scrub. Unfortunately, memories are the same way. Except they’re far less beautiful, with more jagged scars and brash reminisces, I’m not sure where my tattoos start and my memories end. They both cause me to question and ponder my life but in such distinctly different ways that’s hard to believe that I can even be the same person sometimes. One minute, loving what I do and who I am, and the next wondering why the monsters under my bed are some of the nicest things my mind has ever conjured up when I’m laying in my bed at night. P.s. I hope they nibble my toes hanging off the bed, at least then my mind is preoccupied with something worthwhile for once.