Is Looking Different, Being Different? 

 

About gas stations, tattoos, and the illusion of first impressions

 

The Look that Decides

 

What do you see when you look?
Is what you see truly what is? Or do we all - consciously or unconsciously - fill in the blanks ourselves?

 

Is first love really true love? Or are we all just victims of the optional illusion?

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I experience it daily: that look.
The look that says, “You don’t fit in the box.”

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And honestly? I get it. I look different from most people.
But does that truly make me that different?
At the core… aren’t we all the same?

 

Gas Station Truths

 

Take that moment at the gas station…

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Yes, buckle up, because this is a perfect example of the illusion of perception.

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I park my Fiat 500 - yes, a super cute little car with my border collie Orisha as co-pilot in the back seat - and go to refuel. I pay at the machine, grab the nozzle, and… nothing. Not a single drop of fuel.

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Strange.

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A woman parks behind me, gets out, and starts fueling without any problem.

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I walk around the pump and notice that the display at my side only shows 98 octane. No 95. Aha. That’s the issue.

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I kindly approach her:
“Is it working for you? Mine isn’t doing anything.”

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Her look says it all.
Doubt. Suspicion. Judgment.

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She asks, “Did you even pay?”

Uh… seriously?

Ouch. That one landed.

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I feel the energy shift all the way down to my little toe.
As if I were standing there trying to steal fuel.
With my rasta appearance, tattoos and dreads, I clearly didn’t fit into her “safety profile.”

 

I thank her with a smile — one that says, “Honey, no worries, I’m not stealing gas.”

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I drive to another pump. There, it works perfectly.
I see her expression change. Relief.
Maybe even a hint of shame.

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She hadn’t seen me for who I was, but for what I seemed to be at first glance.
The illusion was real.

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And I think… really?
Am I truly that threatening?

A woman alone. In a Fiat 500. With a fluffy border collie.

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Have you ever heard of a female rasta hippie committing an armed robbery with dreadlocks blowing in the wind? 

 

My Face, My Story

 

Yes, I have tattoos on my face.
And no, it’s not a criminal label — it’s ancestral art.

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They are the lines of my roots, the symbols of an ancient tribe that lives deeply within me. It’s the tribe of my ancestors that I feel.

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Centuries ago, a tattooed body was as normal as wearing shoes. Tattoos weren’t fashion - they were identity. They gave you strength, protection, connection. They told the story of who you were, where you came from, and who your people were.

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That is not rebellion.
That is heritage.

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My skin tells my story.
Not a copy, not a Pinterest image, not an impulse.
Every symbol, every line, is an echo of my roots.

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It’s ancestral.
It’s sacred.
It’s me.

 

I Am the Tattoo 

 

I didn’t choose a tattoo - I am the tattoo.
It’s not decoration, it’s recognition.

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My tattoo artist translates who I am into images that live on my skin.
Unique. Incredibly personal.

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That’s why I don’t share it. Not because I don’t want to, but because I can’t.

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I am not a product, not a print, not version 2.0.
I am a living, breathing piece of art that does not tolerate duplication.

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I already get itchy at the mere thought of someone having the exact same tattoo as me.

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Every line of ink on my body tells a part of my story.
It’s not a fashion accessory.
It’s a manifestation.
It’s not decoration - it’s identification.

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I am the body.
This is me.

I am my own unique Being. And I immerse myself in it - with every cell, every fiber, with all my heart.

 

Let Me Dance

 

Let me color my body rather than hang Picasso posters on my walls.

Let me feel my African roots pulsing through my veins.

Let me wear my hair the way I want - wild, free, and connected to nature.

Let me get lost in summer markets, sand between my toes, music dancing through my hips.

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That’s where my soul sings, where rules soften and freedom breathes.

I am who I am: a rasta hippie on the route.

But don’t get me wrong. I also admire those who find peace in structure, who fold their lives like a neatly pressed napkin. A house, a garden, a tidy existence.

I see you, and I respect you 🙏🏻

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Don't Judge the Book by his Cover 

 

We live in a time where everything is visual, yet we truly see so little.
We judge faster than we feel.

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Do you look beyond the appearance?
Do you feel the heart behind the image?

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So… don’t be fooled by the surface. Don’t be misled by origin or tattoos.

Feel how warm and soft a heart can beat behind what you might call “strange.”

Look beyond the eye - beyond the outside - and maybe, just maybe… you’ll discover a hidden diamond in someone you first rejected.

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Who knows… maybe that “strange bird” is exactly the bit of happiness you needed on an unhappy day.

Don’t judge the story by its cover - you might miss the chapter that changes your life. 

 

Gratitude to the Artist 

 

Yes, I have tattoos on my face. No, I’m not here to rob your gas station.

I’m here to live. Truly live. In my body, in my roots, in my truth.

Because this body, this story, this cover - was shaped with love. A deep bow to the artists who helped make my soul visible.

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🖤 Tattoo Tanne - soul sister & tattoo magician. 80% of my body carries her work.
🖤 Piercing Hetty - facial adornments that are soft and powerful at the same time.
🖤 Borneo Headhunters - for the traditional female weaving piece.

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One by one, beautiful and warm souls in a unique book cover.

 

In Closing 

 

Maybe it’s that unexpected encounter, that “different” book, that look from a stranger on an ordinary day - the one that pulls you out of your own box. That touches you. That wakes you up.

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And suddenly you realize: beauty does not live in what you recognize, but in what you dare to meet.

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Let your gaze not be a filter, but an invitation. Because behind every story, there is a human being. And behind every human being… perhaps a hidden diamond.

 

BOOM. Truth dropped.