I let the littlest things consume me. I’ll admit.

As a writer, I dive into anything and everything that I allow for my mind to be completely submerged in; the smallest moment that grows and bleeds life into itself, an idea nurtured like a seedling that blooms with fresh leaves and buds, a scene that spills over from my mind and writes itself once I envision it a starting point.

As a person; a song, a movie, a story, a character, all touches me on a level that’s beyond the ordinary.

I’d say even, that often time it’s obsessive, the way I nitpick and notice and make connections to (what some might regard as in)significant details, (over)analyze, (over)appreciate, (over)think, (over)envision. And while I admit that sometimes it might be better for my sanity to be lesser of an obsessive dwelling nutter in abovementioned aspects, I feel bad when I get fanatically fixated about something arguably fictional and people look at me with a cocked eyebrow and go ‘Whoa. Slow down there. It/He/She is not even real.’

And I say arguably because it is real on so many levels, not just in my own mind. And even if it were something that was only to be real in one’s head, in the words of probably the most famous book of our time, “Of course it’s happening in your head, but why on earth should that mean it’s not real?”

I feel bad that these people are so imaginatively stunted that they can’t feel the life breathing from the characters and the stories and the plot that practically weaves itself seamlessly to life. That they can’t see beyond what’s crammed into their little frigid box that is their mind. That there’s just no whimsy, or imagination or, that distinctive je ne sais quoi that spills a swirl of rainbow colours into their world.

There’s just something very sad about the unimaginative. Or at least, to me it is. I mean Einstein himself said that (and I’m paraphrasing here) that logic only gets you so far where else imagination gets you everywhere!

And of course, this all stems from a heated extensive argument of who-do-you-ship-more of a specific television show now that all the series’ are back on the airwaves, which ended in an objective third party losing their cool and shortly telling us off that “it is just a tv show!” and that “there are people dying of hunger and poverty and war in the world so stop arguing about who’s meant to be and who has more chemistry!”

Needless to say, in a huff, we ceased the not so heated argument and turned the tables on the self righteous objective third party.

Shallow as it sounds to be consumed by televisions and books and fictional characters, I think it’s a perfectly acceptable vice to have. It stops the echoes of real life seeping into my compulsive thinking. And if I’m this obsessed about people that aren’t me, I’d hate to think how much worse I could be consumed by all the little things in my own life. Or worse, the ‘bigger’ things in life.

“Cause my echo, echo, is the only voice coming back.”


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