Amor Fati: A Pinocchio Retelling

For a long time, Pinocchio’s eyes remained glued to the door Adone walked through. His silhouette danced in his mind, slipping through the clockwork and clinging to his cogs without an end. Something felt off about his words, but he couldn't quite tell what it was. In the light of his words, in the little flames that give them their temperature, there was a piercing coldness sputtering out of Adone. Even when he perceived it clearly, he still couldn’t tell where it came from, only to realize that he, too, owned that same room in his mansion of his mind. It was a dusty, dark room full of insects and vermin of all shapes, claiming every corner as their own. There was a war of all against all, and the most gut-twisting displays of visceral brutality flickered and crackled like bloody flames. That is why it was kept locked and untouched, for even light feared entering that vile space. Celso, too, upon tasting just a hint of that part of Pinocchio’s heart grew uneasy and nervous, trying to control his disturbed state to counsel Pinocchio’s. 

But he didn’t judge him in the slightest for owning such a place within him. Everyone had that dark room caked with grimy memories and the dust of time, and Celso saw this in every heart he gazed into as a fallen fay. In spite of all his experience, there was no heart more rich with light and drenched with darkness than Pinocchio’s, whose wasn’t even ripe yet. Imagining its completion made the sublime coil around his soul and pierce it with terror. He was honored to be in the role he was in, and even prouder to see Pinocchio grab the red coat from Adone’s bag and stretch it before his eyes. The hope radiating from Pinocchio transferred to Celso, kindling a great fire in his heart. With eagerness, the cricket watched how Pinocchio threw the red coat into the fire. The doll grabbed a little stool and sat in front of the hearth, not too close to get himself burnt, but close enough to see the red coat getting licked to ashes with fiery tongues. A beatific smile spread across his wooden lips as he saw the past crumble before his eyes, paving the way to a brighter future. 

Something soft and tender in the effervescence of the fire caressed the depths of Pinocchio’s soul. The warmth of the velvet touch penetrated the marrow of his heart, causing it to beat with intense, sharp clicks. Celso silently observed the metallic rainfall in his clockwork heart, digesting it like a symphony. There was a heavenly hum permeating the background of the clicking and perfumed by time’s breath. In the ghost of the breath that sang like wind between leaves, death’s velvet sigh echoed and lingered, enriching the heavenly hum’s presence. As the red fabric became black, so too did Pinocchio’s bright red soul unravel to reveal ebony innards, throbbing and pulsating to the rhythm of pain. 

“What seems to be troubling you, Pinocchio? I am always here, just in case you ever need a shoulder to lean on or an ear to borrow.” The cricket of his conscience whispered in a voice as gentle and piercing as his yearning. 

His turquoise eyes captured the hunger of the flame, and for a moment he saw himself in the fire, in the heat, the warmth, the destruction. But not the illumination, for he was too sensitive to the light. From the moment of his conception, all he knew was darkness; a wet, viscous, tangible darkness dyed in blood and tears. The rage of first breath still echoed in every hall of his mind, sending ripples throughout every room, even the ones he kept locked. He still felt the chisel in his hand, the wind that screamed between him and his maker’s neck, and the fountain of his fate sputtering blood, bathing him in a history he couldn't escape. But those tactile memories remained locked in the darker rooms, the dustier ones where spiders could spin webs of all shapes and sizes and bury them in silky coffins. Sometimes, he would entertain the arachnid artworks, the weavers of his darkest dreams that shed light on his deepest shadows, and be given the chance to see the truth he hungered for. But sometimes, he would rather starve eternally, sputtering bile and acid from his soul’s inability to digest their wisdom. 

“I…”

But the word, the sound to signify himself vanished into silence, the devourer of meaning. All he could see was the millions of red tongues screaming out a performance of his heart’s glossolalia. With every tongue trying to utter a memory, they fought amongst each other in their attempt to remind him of who he was, drowning in a war of significance. Their devouring of his old memories, their reminding of them and new ones ready to be created made Pinocchio see the vast and empty expanse of the future, ready to receive his actions. All possibilities drove swords of light through his chest, transfiguring his clockwork heart into a bleeding sun. 

“I’m fine, Celso. Thank you.” 

He knew that if he waited patiently, Pinocchio would be more willing to speak. He already felt his heart beating the gates of his conscience, wanting to find relief in the garden beyond. Celso knew how essential it was, which is why he nurtured it with the utmost care, waiting for Pinocchio to enter its gates and ensconce himself in the grace in bloom within himself. But first, he had to be willing and open the doors to the darkness he buried in those dark rooms. With great surrender, he let the spiders spin the silk of his soul.  

“Thank you for being here, willing to listen to me and be by my side. Even if you have some ulterior goal in mind, I’m still grateful that you’re here.” 

A profound warmth radiated from deep within him, paired with an icy electricity through his body. It felt as though Pinocchio saw right through him, seeing behind the warm radiance the dark stain that dyed the universe. But even if he had a task to fulfill, he found joy in performing it through a person like Pinocchio, a doll more human than most. His intentions danced and intertwined in their duality, remaining strong in their dynamism. 

“It’s an honor to be by your side and a privilege to be able to go on this journey with you. I’m also grateful to have you as a companion on this journey.” 

He let the silence speak for his clockwork heart, its velvet hum caressing the interwoven melody of the two. There was such a sweet comfort in Celso’s presence that, within the mansion of his mind, he gladly offered him a room large enough for him to feel at home in a foreign place. There, too, was a hearth that giggled and crackled tenderly, with a large bookshelf on the other side containing the rich history pumping in the wooden boy’s heart. Celso was able to kick up his feet and sip a glass of wine as he read Pinocchio’s heart by the fireside. Although his human form remained in lands beyond dreams, he was at least able to see him smile and gesticulate in the shape of all he knew. In every other shape besides his own, which resisted any form in favor of filling the role of his wild yet tender conscience. Celso’s kaleidoscopic smile was finally able to shine its iridescent light to embrace the doll’s lonely shadows. 

“I see the fire eat my old coat and I see the past turn to ash in front of me, but…” 

“But?” 

Celso leaned in from his chair, revealing a tapestry of broken glass on his back that acted as faux fairy wings. He felt his soft gaze flow into Pinocchio’s taut nerves, gently unwinding them to allow his soul to breathe. 

“It’s still there. It’s still in the fire. It is the fire. It’s the fire and the light that touches everything. It’s in everything, everywhere.”

Pinocchio’s words rolled off of his metal tongue and seeped out of the invisible viscera of his soul. In the dance of the fire, he saw time’s choreography which dictated the presence of all things, including the things he thought would be lost to time. But his soul tasted how time entombed immortality, preserving it with the balm of its blood. Everything he saw was perfumed with the past he carried, the past carved in his spirit’s flesh. As it bled without end onto the dance of fire, the present merely existed for him to tend to the ever agape wound. The kaleidoscopic blood, in spite of its fangs, revealed to the doll the hallowed beauty sleeping within all things. 

“I thought that things would get easier; that’s what they all said. And in all the lies that exist, I don’t want that to be one of them. It can’t be.” 

Suddenly, Celso got out of his seat and stood in front of the hearth in Pinocchio’s heart. He closed his eyes to embrace the sounds whispering in his innermost heart, and when he opened his eyes, the humble room transfigured into an endlessly expansive sea. It had been lifetimes since Celso felt sand under his bare feet, let alone receive warm kisses from the ebbing waves. When he studied the waves and rested his gaze on the horizon, he knew that this was Pinocchio’s conscience, the cradle of his anguish. Every droplet of water carried a fragment of his life, and Celso bore witness to its turbulent churning within the wooden boy’s heart. In the words Pinocchio uttered, Celso heard the sea of words he didn’t dare to pronounce. But as he stood in front of it all, he felt responsible for freeing the ocean of its rhythm and to give Pinocchio the honor of what it meant to be. 

“Oh, Pinocchio, it doesn’t get easier. People don’t say that to lie, they say it to hail the truth from it, a truth that might never come. Talk to me, tell me how you feel.” 

A wooden chair formed from the sands of time where Celso seated himself, watching how the turquoise waves sparkled with his eternal light. The sun glitter that smiled on the waves carried the reverse echo of tears waiting to be released from the ocean and take flight to the azure sky. While he couldn’t see the stars of his soul, he knew that they were there, always there, like luminous scars that decorated the abyss, the womb of time. Although Pinocchio’s body was motionless before the fire, he could feel and see the turbulence of his psyche, resisting any form of stasis. He could also see the tragic truth engraved in the innermost sanctum of his soul, one that compelled the wooden boy to hurl himself towards the fire and fulfill the impossible wish of becoming whole through nothingness. Long-suffering, Celso waited for the day he could realize that his conscience was not a torture chamber, but a sanctuary where fulfillment could be achieved. 

“How I feel… I… Damn, the words seem to disintegrate in my mouth before they could come out.” 

“It’s alright,” Celso said with a soft, deep voice, feeling the pulse of Pinocchio’s desire in the lapping waves over his feet. “Take your time. Your soul is rich with time.” 

“It feels like it’s drowning in time,” Pinocchio uttered, feeling a large wave of his oceanic soul crash onto the back of his eyes. The warmth of Celso’s silence allowed him to let his psyche breathe, giving it the room to form itself. 

“I feel a yearning for an end in every step I take towards a new beginning. It’s as if there’s this ocean that keeps growing, and the body of water grows and grows into a clossosus that obscures the sky, drowning the stars, drowning the night. This water within should act as an antidote to the fire that guides me but burns me, but it is just as violent and cruel. It contains all that I have seen and destroys me, cracking me open to see more and be torn further. Is this what it means to be human? I don’t think I want that, Celso. I don’t think I want to be human anymore, if it means feeling yourself dying when you’re alive.” 

“Oh, no, that’s not all it is. Yes it is cruel and indifferent and painful, but being human is being able to have the power to change those conditions. And there is so much power within you, so much that you’re lost in it and crushed by it. It takes a lot of patience and time and effort to channel all of that into something more fruitful and productive. The soul contains a garden in its innermost depths, Pinocchio, that can never be touched, but only be obscured and veiled. It is forever nurtured and tended to by something many cannot fathom, but are intimately connected with. In that verdurous paradise, the untamed thrives and is nourished by the chaos, for all that power that overflows through you springs from that veiled garden. It may seem nonexistent, or on fire, but that’s merely the veil playing tricks on you because deep down it is unblemished in its lush authenticity.” 

The fire hadn’t changed, but there was something different in the way they moved. There was something ethereal, beautiful, yet tragically desperate in the way its luminescence dyed the room and dyed his soul. Its light bled out and slipped into the cracks of his heart, rolling until they penetrated every layer. In that moment, he located the garden within him, but it became a swamp drenched in blood and vile fumes. What greeted was not an emerald paradise but a ruby grave, a tomb too filthy to be considered a resting place. It would have been more fitting to call it an abandoned torture dungeon that was occasionally in use. Pinocchio was relieved that he wasn’t there to see anything transpire there, but the mere thought of knowing that something happened there and is bound to happen there again sickened him to the core. 

All the strings in his system became taut to the point of snapping. Pinocchio clenched his wooden hands on the edge of the stool, his whole body twitching as his soul lurched towards the fire. In the roar of the waves in his ghost, he could hear each and every one begging him to cleanse himself, to purify himself, to dissolve the sickness that was his very roots of being. The more he listened to the endless waves, the tireless flames, the symphonies of his soul, the more he understood the voice of the ocean and dreaded its familiarity. Only through the collective dreams of others had he truly been acquainted with the ocean, but he managed to understand it better than anyone, to understand it as the shape of his heart. That in all the sun glitter and elegant dance of waves that made the surface so beautiful, the mystery of its depths made it sublime. People went drunk for those depths of him, but they never understood that he had always been a prisoner of the deep, always reaching out with a voice of fire from the dark, lonely, cold and crushing depths of his oceanic soul. 

“Lush…” Pinocchio mumbled with a strained voice. It sounded as if the metal component in his throat cracked as he spoke, echoing but a droplet in his ocean of shattering. 

“There… There is. There is just too much of it. Thank you for telling me about this garden, but I can’t find it. What I do find I can’t call a garden just yet. It’s monstrous, disgusting.”

Celso, still in the shape of a man sitting in front of the sea shore, looked out at the sun glitter sparkling on the gentle waves. His gaze caressed the waters with as gentle as the breeze, and he spoke to him in a voice as warm as the waves kissing his feet. 

“There is no problem in being unable to find or, or to find it in an undesirable state. We will work through this together, to give you the garden you deserve. As a start, you can imagine the things and the people you love. It’s important to never forget the capacity for love that can blossom from within, that does blossom from within. It just needs the space to grow. That’s what time is for. And experiences nurture it, together with honest reflections on those experiences. I will be in every part of the process, so you won’t have to fear losing your way.” 

Pinocchio nodded with a blank, expressionless face, looking at nothing in particular. The fire had completely consumed his past, and now it attempted to devour his present and future. Celso’s whisper reminded him that the present was untouchable, that he had supreme power in the present in which he could grow beyond the past and into a desired future. Yet it was also the overwhelming power of the present that caused the overwhelming pain, shattering time within him. From the shards, he saw glimpses of his heart where all he could find was Adone. He mended it together using his beatific smile, even with the scars that would usually give it a terrifying appearance. To him, however, there was a sublime charm in his wounds. He, like the wooden boy himself, had the soul of a deep wound carved like the dusky heavens, bright and bleeding with a passion that devoured the depths of time. As his mode of being was that of an ever bleeding scar, his actions sparkled with an awe inspiring beauty and fortitude. In him, he saw the shadows of paradise dance and sing, giving him hope that he too will someday find his own.  

Adone’s precious blood dyed Pinocchio’s heart in shades of gold, inspiring him to cultivate the strength within him to push him forward instead of crush him from all sides. His sudden absence was made all the more surprising to Pinocchio, paired with a hint of dishonesty. But he knew that he didn't know him that well, that there were parts of him that he kept hidden to not only him, but to himself for the sake of everyone. His faith in him was strong enough to destroy any doubts and fears, confident that he would return when he was finished doing whatever he had to do. In the meantime, he let the fire slowly fade away as went to climb to his bed. But just as tucked himself under the blanket with the dying of the lights, a person enrobed in fire walked out of the hearth, giggling until the flames faded. Adrift on his somnial river, the man’s foxy laugh melted into the murmur of the waters and invaded the realm, inviting himself on the boat to the land of dreams.