Why must i dance to the tune of the puppeteer? Oh father, cut my strings and let me be real. That my fate be mine and not played by the will of you.
Free? Oh what a concept beyond you. Real?
The puppeteer could only laugh behind the shadows of the curtains. Only hands are visible that hold the wooden boards that connect the strings of life. Directing the puppet this and that to the melody played by the unknown violinist.
Yes father, i wish to be real.
The puppet could only look at the darkened face behind the fallen curtains. Hearing the tune as the performance continues. Oh conductor stop this orchestra, drop your baton and end this song. I do not wish to dance upon the stage any longer.
You cannot be real. You will always be the puppet.
No, the blue fairy said i can become a real boy.
Laughter rings throughout the stage. The puppet falls to the floor as the strings loosen.
The blue fairy? There is no blue fairy. Foolish puppet that dreams. Do you not see that this image i portrayed in your mind. I gave you the blue fairy but there is no blue fairy. You are a puppet, there is no real for you. Your fate is to forever prance to the tune of the conductor and the will of the puppeteer.
I cannot become a real boy. My existence is to be pulled by strings by the hands of fate and not of my own. Jiminy, why did you lie to me? You said if i was a good boy, i can become real.
Louder the laughter from the face behind the shadows.
You speak of that insect you hid within the pantry? Jiminy is a cricket, an insect with no ability to communicate. It does not speak. Foolish puppet that dreams.
No, Jiminy is real. He is my conscious, my guide, my friend...
A thud is heard at the puppets feet. The puppet looks towards the ground. There lies the crushed remains of an insect.
That cricket is no conscious, guide, or friend. He is nothing else at all either. It is time to face the truth stupid puppet. This is the truth. You are nothing i haven't made you, you will do nothing i have not set for you, you will be for as long as i keep the strings strung and only when i bore of your performance will i cut the strings and throw you upon the hearth to burn and disappear forever.
Because that is your role, to be my entertainment. You are not real and will never be real. Now do as your role is set to do and dance for me. Dance to the melody of pain, dance to the melody of love. Dance to the melody of new birth and new death. Dance from the rising of the sun to the dawning of the moon. Until the wood that makes you grows molded and rotted.
The puppet continues to dance to the pulling of the strings. On a stage filled with music he did not want to hear, thrown into a play he did not want to play. Watching as the days passed by as the tears fall his wooden cheeks.
The puppeteer could only grin.