Reality: Overrated?

I like fiction more than real life most of the time.

I like getting so into fiction that I can just live there. I like reading it, and I love writing it. Now, that isn't to say that I like LYING, because I think that there are some incredibly true things in fiction. Things are condensed to their essence and, to a degree, simpler.

Maybe fiction is the wrong word. Imagination may be a better expression of the concept I am kicking around, here. I have been thinking about my erstwhile romances and other relationships of old lately with fresh perspective. Some of the people I dismissed out of hand seem more interesting now, whereas people I was over the moon for leave me scratching my head. Why did I cry so hard when that guy cut me loose? Why didn't I take that one seriously or realize that they actually really liked me? It is odd. Makes me feel a little lame.

Of course, I married Tony, who I both did and didn't take seriously in turns over the years. I suppose that makes sense. I always wanted to take him seriously but for some reason I resisted doing so for a long time. In retrospect that was probably a good thing because it forced us to develop a strong friendship that was based on actually liking each other's company.

Although I suppose I earned my "Fickle Fairy" nickname. I was a bit flighty, and ran from committment much of the time. Incidentally, the guy that nicknamed me that broke up with me before I even realized we were dating. I was like "Wait? What do you mean it is over? We were dating? I thought we were just hanging out."

Clearly, my perception of what is going on around me is skewed. I already know that I just don't seem to react to the world in the same way that others do. I have to chalk that up to my imagination running away with me, rather than a lack of observation skills. I fill in the blanks with whatever embroidered bit of poetry suits me. Thus my relationships with people take on a mythic quality, based on who they are as people and the ideals and qualities I attach to them, usually to their benefit.

I wonder if that is hard for people to live up to. If I make an epic hero out of you in my mind, how easy is it to let me down? If I paint you a villain, how do I ever forgive your actual transgressions?

In literature that seems to work out okay, but in real life it is a bit messier. Maybe it is good for the egos of my friends that I hold them in such high esteem. I seem to forget that they are people, though. They are larger than life to me. I love them, though, whether that is based in reality or not. The love is real.

In my mind, most people are like characters. If a person is of particular significance to me, they inhabit an almost physical space inside me. I lovingly flesh them out in my imagination. If it is someone new, I am insatiably curious about them, adding each new thing I learn about them to my mental picture.

I try to be accurate, but I have been known to either soft-focus people or be utterly wrong about them. I have to say it is pretty jarring to have the real person turn out crueler, or weaker, or less brave than I expect they will be. I want to think the best of people, and hope they see the good in the way I see them.

The opposite is also true. The villains of my life are equally built up, resting on the foundations of what are basically just flawed or twisted people. But I guess it is easier to see them as their acts of wrongdoing than to have empathy for what made them the way they are. I can slay a dragon, but real, nuanced people are another matter. I might have to forgive them to a degree, and sometimes I am reluctant to do that.

So, if you are in my life and I apparently like you, then you shine radiantly to me. You have a halo-like glow that sets you above mere mortals. You matter more. You get to reside in my artisic and imaginative heart. I hope you like it there. I try to make it just a little better than the real world.