Occasionally I find, when I watch a show or movie or read a book, I become intertwined with a particular character. I watch them live their lives and I can relate to that character in a way that I would never relate to someone who was physically real. That is not to say I do not have wonderful relationships with those who exist in our real world. What I am trying to get at is in the fictional world a character’s life lays before us. They have no secrets from us and we understand their motives, loves, and hates. They can not offer us a false smile to tell us that nothing is wrong, they will not hide away their darkest secrets from us. It is wonderful, feeling like you know everything about a person. Especially when your life is a chaotic whirl of people who will never get to know on the levels that you should like.
After relating to those fictional characters, I begin to build a fantasy world revolving around them. I can get so very detailed with those fantasies that occasionally it scares me. It starts little, simple. I think that I would have been friends with that person in school or perhaps a shy school girl crush. The more I learn about the character, the more I feel for them. I move on to heavier themes, great twisting plots in which the character and myself are locked together. A battle of wits perhaps or a race for sexual dominance. I can lay awake for hours just contemplating the conversations we might have. How would the character’s touch feel? How would his voice sound? What sort of faces would he show just me? You know, those special faces that only a select few people will ever come to know. Would he call me by my name or might he have a nickname for me? How would our dynamic play off both to the public eye and behind closed doors.
Somewhere down the line I may fall in love with the character. I see him and I pine for him. I want to meet him. I wish I could insert myself into his life in someway. But I also understand he isn’t real. I know they are just silly day-dreams, but it does not stop the feeling of desire. Not for the actor who gives that character a face. It is for the character himself. And, knowing that the actor who plays the character is nothing like the character, I wonder if I would still love the character in this way should he have a different face.
These fantasies are fickle and fleeting, lasting only as long as it takes to find a new character to fixate upon. They do not rule me, just play in my head to pass away quiet hours. They are imaginative day dreams which take light and burn brightly for only a little while. I covet my fantasies, for they are the brightest part of my dismal, grown-up world.