The Abundance of Reality in Fiction

I don't quite know how to describe this feeling. It is utterly personal and it seems almost invasive for anyone to see me in a state like this but I feel defenceless. Fragile. Weak even. I just finished reading the Hunger Games series with Mockingjay being the last book. Books, movies, and stories in general have an interesting way of impacting me. I suppose it's "normal" to be transported to the universe in which the story takes place. To have your mind, your emotions, and sometimes what feels like your whole body disintegrate itself and then to have it collect itself again in that alternate universe. After a while you don't even notice sensations like hunger or having to go to the bathroom. These "urges" become of secondary nature and importance. What's more important is that you don't miss a beat in the story. Your own life and its problems begins to fade away. If it's just for a moment, an hour, a day, or even a week. It's not as important as this story. Right here.

See, this could go a million different ways. Some stories impact you more than others. Some are just fleeting, which you welcomed into your life easily but also just as easily let go. Then there are those that resonate with you for much longer. No matter how much you want them to break away, it seems impossible. And it is especially disheartening when the story you just became so engrossed in, is a story of heartache and pain. Immeasurable pain. You grow to love certain characters and while you know that literally anything could happen on the next page (or sometimes even on the same page), you don't want to give into that "reality". They are good. While they may be flawed, they are good in your eyes. They deserve life and love and happiness. And then the unthinkable happens. Tragedy. And for a moment you clasp your hands over your mouth to mute the whimper wanting so desperately to escape from your lips as if you are surrounded by people who are watching your reaction. As soon as you notice that it is of no use and that there is, in fact  no one intensely watching you, the tears begin to fall. And by you, I mean me. I am so easily overcome by grief. Sometimes I think it's because I am weak. Sometimes I think it's because I possess a great deal of empathy. I suppose it can be both. I don't even necessarily understand the point of why I am writing this except for trying to make sense of this myself.

Trying to make sense of why I react the way I react. Why do I grief something so fictional when I know that it isn't real? But then it hits me. In a way, some distant, distant way it is real. The horror, the pain, the anger, and the tragedy portrayed in stories only comes from our own inspiration and this is almost always drawn from reality. I don't believe that we would have a concept of pain in stories if it weren't for the fact that pain, in this world, is very, very real.

Pain, war, anger, grief, tears, sadness... all these things are far more real than moments of delusional happiness. And this is where I disagree with those who say that fiction books take you away from the real world. I would argue that the opposite is true. Never have I connected so much with the pain in our very real world today than when I connect with it in a book. It brings up anger, disappointment, and frustration at the current situations running rampant all over the place.

I always wondered why people bothered writing painful stories when there is so much pain already in this world. It would be so much easier to escape by reading about wonderful, happy stories that transport us to a paradise of some sort. But this isn't the point. The point of stories isn't so much to take us away from realty but rather to face it. And we all have a reality we would rather not face. If that's the case, I recommend you start reading.

Maybe you're just a piece of lettuce.

There may be seasons in your life where you will feel like you're being tossed about like an ordinary piece of lettuce in a salad. (Yes. Please excuse my awful title and me comparing you to a piece of lettuce. It is late.) You won't know where you belong, where you'll fit in, or what you're supposed to do. Maybe you won't have to endure seasons like that. I was really tempted to write that I hope, for your sake, you won't. But the more I think about it, the more I really hope you'll experience these seasons.

It is hard living in a way where you feel like you don't belong. I've definitely had my fair shares of experiences in this matter. Nothing in my life has been permanent except for a few friendships and most importantly: God's ever-present grace.

Today I was unfortunately let go from my job. It doesn't matter why or how. You know what matters? My reaction to it. After leaving I was visibly upset and as soon as I started my drive home I started ranting in my head. "Ugh. Seriously? When can I finally settle down? Is this just not going to happen for me? God, seriously: I have no place to call my permanent home, I have no boyfriend, and as it turns out, I have no job either. I have NOTHING. NADA." I was clearly frustrated and felt justified in my complaining. Out of nowhere though I hear the following words: "Are you serious right now? You have ME! You have your God. You have my GRACE."

OUCH. I just complained about having nothing when, in fact, I had everything. Homes, boyfriends/girlfriends/husbands/wives, jobs, etc. are not an accurate indicator of how much you have in this life. They are not an indication of a successful life. When am I going to get this through my thick skull? I keep thinking that in order to have a successful life I need to be settled down with a fixed income, and someone to share every day life with. But what if that's just not an option for me? What if my life will revolve around the basic premise of not being able to settle at all? Maybe that's my case, maybe it isn't. Again, that is not of importance. The only thing that matters is that I know for a fact who my life revolves around.

And He has never let me down or broken my trust.