[ WP ] When a child is born , he is born with tattoos that will tell the story of his life . He spends years trying to decipher them , but - as it is with everyone - he is unable to . As life goes on , however , situations surface and he begins to understand his tattoos .

My son had been born twenty-two years ago. He was more interested in our birth tattoos than anyone I'd ever met. We were all curious of what portents they hid, but he had actively tried to figure them out. I was afraid that would distract him from the life he ought to lead. That's very much a fatherly fear. 
 
 Some of us have stared long hours at these things, our birth marks. We were all captivated by the mystery. Whichever one of our ancestors first stumbled upon their meaning must have really found himself a truly wise man. Perhaps fearful too. Maybe they all figured it out, though. 
 
 There are certain aspects our society that refuse this markings. They burn, mangle their skin unrecognizable. They are shunned and they shun themselves doing so. They do not want their life determined but they can not switch the currents of their fate. 
 
 Now, my son. He, like many others, recognized some certain significant memories embedded in his body. His first time he fell in love, out of love. A small frieze-like image of his early childhood friends. I wonder how often these images compel our actions and outcomes in life. 
 
 He spurned this, like some do. He attempted to burn his flesh, though he could n't due to his fear of being shunned and in all purposes, but literally, exiled. He then covered his markings with papers or superfluous clothing to disinherit it. 
 
 We all knew his feelings. We all had them. No one wants to be ruled over, physically or mentally. But we learned to live with it. The mysteries had no effect of us, that was the public consensus. I've told you my thoughts on that, though. 
 
 He soon began to drift away from me and his mother. This is a normal thing for a young man. We did n't think too much of it, but we were there. We tried to be there and answer him. He wanted the answers, but he wanted the answers he sought first and asked the questions he could n't understand yet. This, too, is what we all experience. 
 
 He reacted violently to it, eventually. Maybe we were n't there enough, maybe it was unavoidable. I was told not to blame myself, but how could n't I? 
 
 He wanted to act. He wanted to supersede the authority we were put under at birth. He would act contradictory to anything on him he could find. If he saw an image of what he thought was water, he would stay inland. Maybe that's what it would mean. Maybe he was becoming it's subject directly by acting against it. 
 
 Now, my son, what have you done? 
 
 He had it own thoughts similar to that, that he was acting right into it. He decided to run away. To escape from society, where he felt it was given control, outside of a natural world that leaves it out of mind. He'd gone into the woods and disappeared. He spoke to me before then and told me he planned to escape this fate. He wanted to understand it more, finally. That we might take more control of these markings and, in turn, in more control of our own lives. 
 
 My son, my son. We always had lived in such a way. I could n't simply teach you that. If I had told you that you would n't understand, not yet. We had all made peace with such restrictions, with such delineations already drawn into our fate. 
 
 My son, my son, we're waiting for you! My son, my son, please come home. I'll tell you more. They only reveal what we already know of ourselves. A constant reminder of our fates, not our futures. I wish I had understood that before you left. 
 
 My son, my son, your future is here. Come home, my son.
