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.
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