Come See Inside My Head

Untitled Part 1

How clever, or deceitful, are those who have the ability to weave stories, to craft plotlines, to create characters and worlds and stories from nothing and keep us trapped there. Keep us suspended, living in a false reality with minds and emotions torn between the real and the fake. 

A blessing or a curse? Harmless fun or disguised emptiness? Disguised lack?

To some, they can pass through these make-believe worlds, these mindless vacations from reality. To others, it consumes them. It sidetracks them. It ensnares them.

It sounds dramatic, but isn't that the point? Isn't that what these movies, these books, these other realities do? Make us want to live dramatically. Make us think dramatically. Make us want to be the hero. Make us strive over a fantasy. Make us disappointed with what is right in front of us.

It sounds silly, but isn't that what these plotlines are? Silly?

I could praise the creativeness of directors, of authors, of scriptwriters.

I could just as easily condemn them for these wonderful and all-consuming snares they set. These stories that drag me deep inside my head. Do I want to get out? Should I want to? I think I have to. 

It feels like an addiction, reading a good book and then wanting to know more about the characters, the world, the ridiculous plotline, the ending. It is all-consuming at times. A story ends and I am hung up for weeks. Anticipation (or is it dread?) swarms me as I anxiously await another hit - another chapter, another character, another plotline, another victory, another love, another heartbreak, another death, another triumph. What comes next?

One chapter ends, my mind swimming. My conscious battles my subconscious. I want to immerse myself deeper into the story, but feel the tug back to reality, back to having a shower, to making dinner, to participating in my own life. Sometimes I forget to. I don't even want to.

 I feel as if I am living alongside these characters, I feel like I am a part of their world. That's the beauty of it I guess, or, the biggest deception - I can be a part of it if I want to. It exists within my head. It was created for me. For you. This is my head - your head. My world - your world. These are my companions - your companions. This plotline is mine to warp and bend as I see fit, yours also. We can control it. 

Can't we?

Our imaginations are ignited by these words, these characters, these stories; what is written or shown, right in front of us. But our imaginations are not limited to what is given to us to read or see.

It feels like you know the characters. One dies, and you are left heartbroken; sobbing over someone who isn't even real. They aren't really real in the sense of the world. They aren't tangible, in front of us, people we can see and touch. But they do live, don't they? 

They live in our minds; sometimes, most times, they even become our friends. Our imaginations make them more real to us, more reachable, more lovable than even the people around us. 

Do I love it, or do I hate it? The ability to live extravagantly in my mind or being robbed of my own story?

Does it grow me, or does it stunt my growth? Am I free or am I trapped?

Does it change me for better or for worse? Do the people around me notice? 

Do these books, these movies, these characters; do they help me or do they distract me? Is the distraction worth it?