Sometimes I bust out and do things so permanent. Like tattoos and

In the words of Drew Barrymore, a woman whose life has danced between chaos and grace, we hear a confession that is both playful and profound: “Sometimes I bust out and do things so permanent. Like tattoos and marriage.” Beneath its laughter lies a truth that all souls eventually come to face—that life is a weaving of impulse and eternity. The heart, in its wildness, seeks freedom; yet that same freedom often leads us to choices that bind us forever. In this simple yet piercing statement, Barrymore speaks the language of all who have lived fiercely: the paradox of wanting to live in the moment, even when that moment carves its mark into the flesh of time.

To understand the meaning of her words, we must first understand the spirit behind them. Drew Barrymore, born into a dynasty of actors and raised amid fame’s storm, has lived a life of extremes—childhood stardom, public struggle, rebirth. When she speaks of “doing things so permanent,” she is not simply referring to tattoos or marriage; she is revealing the soul’s impulse to seize life fully, to capture emotion before it fades. In a world that moves too quickly, where feelings vanish like mist, the act of marking one’s body or joining one’s life to another becomes an act of defiance against impermanence. It is the human cry: Let something of me last.

The ancients would have understood her perfectly. Among the Greeks, it was said that to live passionately was to live dangerously, for passion always tempts fate. The warrior, knowing death awaits him, still runs into battle; the lover, knowing heartbreak, still gives his heart. So it is with Barrymore’s tattoos and marriage—symbols of the eternal etched upon the fleeting. Each represents the yearning of the human spirit to make the transient sacred. A tattoo is the skin’s memory; a marriage, the soul’s. Both are acts of hope and of surrender—hope that beauty can last, and surrender to the truth that even permanence may fade.

Consider the story of Frida Kahlo, the great painter whose art was as indelible as her pain. Her body bore both scars and tattoos of another kind—brushstrokes upon canvas that outlived her suffering. Her love for Diego Rivera was her “permanent thing,” both wound and wonder, binding her through ecstasy and agony. Like Barrymore, Kahlo did not seek safety; she sought experience. Her life teaches us that those who live passionately do not fear consequence—they fear only the emptiness of a life unlived. For such souls, permanence is not a prison, but proof that something real once existed.

Yet in Barrymore’s tone, there is also irony—a gentle laughter at her own impulses. She knows that permanence is often an illusion, that tattoos fade and marriages may fall apart. But even in their impermanence, they hold meaning. A tattoo tells the story of who we were when we were brave enough to make a mark. A marriage, even if it ends, tells the story of who we were when we believed in forever. In this way, the permanent act becomes not a guarantee of endurance, but a testament to courage. It says: I lived. I dared. I believed.

There is a lesson here for all who fear mistakes or cling too tightly to control. Life will not wait for the cautious. To live only by certainty is to live half-alive. Permanence, as Barrymore shows us, is not the enemy of freedom—it is its consequence. Every choice we make, even the small ones, carves itself into the stone of our days. The question is not whether we should risk permanence, but whether we will have the heart to face what permanence teaches us. To love, to commit, to mark ourselves with meaning—these are the rites through which we become fully human.

So let this teaching be remembered: do not fear the ink of life. It is better to bear the scars of passion than the blankness of regret. The ancients would tell us that a life unmarked is a life untested. Be bold, as Drew Barrymore was bold. Laugh at your own wildness, yet honor it too. Let your tattoos—whether of skin or soul—remind you of the moments when you were most alive. And when you choose love, as fragile and lasting as it may be, give it your whole heart, knowing that even if it breaks, it will have been real.

For in the end, the measure of a life well-lived is not how little we risked, but how deeply we dared to be human. Tattoos fade, marriages change, but the courage to live with both passion and imperfection—ah, that endures beyond the grave. So live boldly, mark your story, love without fear, and when you look back, let your soul say, as Barrymore’s laughter implies: I may have made mistakes, but I never held back from life.