elissa ingrid's photostream

Sometimes marjorique was hardly there, hardly at all.
and sometimes marjorique was painted in small.
in a pastel colour,
in the upper corner
of the vibrant picture.

"where are you marjorique?" the people would ask.
and she would pencil in "here!" above her head.
but they didn't see.
and asked again.
"marjorique, you need to yell"
so she wrote it in darker.
in permanent ink in a dark blue shade.
and still, they refused to see.

and on most days, she felt faded
and on sundays, she just painted
and darker and darker, she became
just to be seen,
and scratched out her name
in ribbons of ink.

the stronger her color,
the more they all saw her.

the stronger the ink,
the stronger the think,

and the stronger the thinks
in marjorique's head,
the more marjorique wished
she was faded, instead.

and you might not be there to them, hardly at all
and you might feel hidden, and terribly small.
and the bigs are obtrusive,
not worth, looking for.
but the jewel is forgotten,
tossed on the floor.
to find it, we search
and we crawl on the carpet,
and our eyes hurt from looking...

until we find it..

and since i know we all need it,
here is a secret;

The magic is in,
the very least sought out places
the very place that the bigs
will try to erase us.

but try as they might,
they too, will fade
and the canvas is dust
and the colors, just shades.

so marjorique smiles
from her corner
and thinks.
and she smiles at fading
and puts down the ink.
because she may not be seen,
by the lame-o observers,
but oh the joy
of the artists that see her.

but marjorique is learning that this is okay
and finds joy in the quiet
and all through the day,
she thinks to herself
(and what wonderful thoughts)

"How nice to be faded, how great to be sought."