Marceline sits on the hot tarmac with her bloody knees and bruises.
Chalk in her hand.
Marceline’s manifesto on the street.
Impregnated by her world.
Marceline roams freely.
She doesn’t have any fears at this point.
She leads everyone into combats of make-belief, little Marceline.
Her fabrications are more intriguing than everyday routine, the children follow her.
Earthy, energetic and loud she runs through this one street.
Through dead leaves and runny mud.
Marceline doesn’t focus on her clothes, she has nothing to hide.
Her childish skin exposed to every element.
The weather in her own world is the one that counts.
Adults stare at her in silence, associating her with mischief and unworldliness.
They feel like they have to drag their children away from her rigorous imagination.
The parental depreciation leaves Marceline unimpressed.
Until the hordes she led on disintegrate.
Leave her fragmented.
They all end their childhoods then and there.
Marceline the warrior still carries the wooden sceptre up high.
Running towards a world nobody dares to comprehend.
“Portrait de femme rousse” by Carolus Duran (1837-1917)