This one focuses on Pinocchio, instead of Puck and Sabrina, because I was always fascinated by how he was an adult in a child's body. Also, when Geppetto died I kind of really pitied and hated Pinocchio at the same time. Thanks for reaading.
Woodwork
Pinocchio loved woodwork. It didn't matter what he made, be it a chair, a table, or even a pencil holder, but he loved building with wood. The smooth feel of the wood under his fingers, the beautiful colour change as your eyes travelled from one end to the other, even the flowing direction of the grain. It made him feel whole. It gave him vibrancy and life, as if he could feel the tree it once was hold its energy in his palm. For a moment, he would just hold the material in his hand, breathing deeply, appreciate it for what it was. Then he lifted up his knife, and began to cut.
The problem with beauty is that it never shows the whole part of someone. In every person, in every thing, there is always something ugly, something bestial and unattractive which makes a person cringe and look away. True beauty is accepting that unappealing part, embracing it instead of pushing it away, showing to the world that you're not ashamed of this deformed aspect of yourself, that you've appreciated it as one of your own. Many people can't do that, it's too difficult to take responsibility for that side of you, too difficult to persuade yourself that that thing is a part of you. Because then it spoils the image, ruins that perfect symmetry, distorts the body. So instead, they ignore it, reject it, convince themselves that they are above this greed, or this harshness, or this crooked pair of teeth, and in doing so, break themselves. They tear away a part of themselves, become mere shades, shadows of what was once a whole body.
Pinocchio was no different. He despised the fact that he looked like a child, hated it with every fiber of his being, yearned instead for the image, and the reputation, and the respect of an adult. As a child he was looked down upon, humoured but not listened to, even though behind those large eyes was the brain of a fully-developed man. He longed for control, for power, to have some sort of grasp over this chaotic world he lived in. As a boy, he could not do that. But as a man, then, then he would have a starting point, a chance, a weapon. When he carved, he felt that, felt like he was in control, that he could take this shapeless hunk of wood and transform it into something beautiful.
He convinced himself that he was doing the right thing, he was turning something that was seen merely as an asset to something that would be cherished and admired. He suppressed the vibrancy he felt in it, ignored the cries as he carved away pieces of once-living and growing material. He whistled a false tune to try and block out the noise, whittled fast to end it quickly, revelled in the feeling of power, and wept at the pain he caused.
Deep down, Pinocchio was nothing but a boy, cut away from the rest of himself. He was unwhole, broken, as lifeless and hollow as the marionettes he carved. He knew it. And still, he tried.
Thanks for reading. Please review.