Has it ever happened to you, after watching an enthralling movie or playing a nice game with well defined characters, to link with the character you like in such a manner that you start taking upon yourself his traits? Like his accent, or his way of being, or maybe, in a more elevated way, the ideas he or she represents?
I doubt it’s never occurred to you, but in my case, it’s always been two shows that I keep watching on and off that tend to bleed influence into my mind – namely House MD, with House himself as the influence, and Doctor Who, with the Doctor seeping into my mind. Now, it might be something of a temporal self-wished mind link to an idea or an image that I burn into my own imagination, or it is pure enjoyment of the fact that I can become a brilliant diagnostician or a time and space faring alien with an encyclopedic knowledge and an endless energy, at least for a few moments. Or maybe it is an imposed wish to leave behind this world of cycles and back and forth, of simple happiness and exciting wait of another human made creation (Starcraft II, in this example), an exile, so to speak, of the mind into the imagination of another.
Escapism has always been a means of entertainment for me. In many ways, perhaps it was the only one. Getting out of it, running outside of a normal idea box of what should and will happen, it’s the way that I discover something new and interesting that makes me gush with energy, almost obsessively, at the subject of my attention. I see something that I like, and lo and behold, in a maximum of a few months time I dry it of everything that would interest me, then leave it behind as a pure memory, an item of knowledge in an expansive bank of curious proportions.
I look at a series as Doctor Who, with so many ideas and actions and interesting and likeable characters, I link to them, I start acting as the Doctor, ever curious and believing in the fact that he could learn everything, perhaps knowing everything beforehand, and then I study each and every episode, why the creator thought of this and that and the origin of the alien itself, the true identity and purpose and response. Then I leave it behind, just as another memory, committed, surely, to the curiosity of a 19 year old that would soon forget, maybe, that the hour spent watching that episode is the result of countless others of sweat and blood, toiled away in the British Isles by charismatic actors and clever writers.
Allons-y then, and may fictional characters drive us to knowledge now and again, for it is a simple substitute to a kick in the behind.