When I was younger I used to be told I had a heart of stone. I would sit in front of a weepy film seemingly unaffected whilst the rest of my family whimpered into their Kleenex.
Perhaps this is why I am excessively empathetic as an adult.
Take the American drama, 24 for example. I would put a spoiler alert here but I don’t believe that there is anyone as archaic as me when it comes to catching up with Jack Bauer’s latest exploits. I am still just ploughing my way through series six.
Mid way through series five I was presented with a heart wrenching moment whereby the loveable chubby office geek -one who provoked the sympathetic head tilt every time he opened his mouth and uttered a mumbled sentence- met his premature end. He realised his demise just moments before it happened, his podgy little face uttering his best friend’s name as he collapsed on the floor amid a pile of brown polyester. My heart bled for this moment, I could not get over it. The image of his face would disrupt my thoughts for the next 24 hours and I would be relentlessly reminded as to how horrible this unreality actually was.
I seem to be plagued with taking fictional moments into my heart and letting them pluck at my strings until they snap. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t have it restrung.
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I feel like sometimes fictional characters weave their way into our hearts because its easier to cry over them and let them go, than it is to cry over someone dear, and admit they’re gone.
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So true. The very best of stories definitely play on what we already know ourselves or recognise in our own lives!
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