How real is your reality?

I was just reading about how excited Robert Pattinson (he of Twilight fame) was at the prospect of meeting David Tennant (he of Dr Who fame) and how he was hoping for a ride in the Tardis, and was chuckling at the incredulity of it all when I remembered something.

You see, I practically grew up backstage of a small theater where my father was gainfully employed as an actor. The props were my first toys, the rehearsals my play dates. I knew from early on that it was all pretend, and yet...

There was that time I watched my father in a televised drama where he was portraying yet another down and out character. There was a part where he was cold and shivering and sad, and I am told I came out from under the dining table that was my favourite hiding spot and offered my blankie to the television set saying "Here daddy, you can have my blankie, you don't have to be cold!" The adults thought that was the sweetest, funniest thing ever, but to my four year old mind, my father was suffering and I wanted to help. I knew he was pretending, but could I be really, really sure he wasn't actually cold?

There was also a time when, aged five, I was taking part in a Christmas play in my nursery and had come up to the stage to the sight of Santa, dressed up in his red suit and with his huge white beard staring at me mischievously with my father's sparkling eyes. I had frozen to the spot. I have no recollection of how I had managed to get through my part, all I can remember is a feeling of my world splitting in two and my young mind buckling under the pressure of dual realities. There is a photo of this:

It wasn't news to me that Santa didn't exist or that my father was an actor. But the combination of my reality and my imagination being forced to exist simultaneously and consciously was just too much for my young brain to cope with.

This happened again, not long afterward. The theater was showing an awesome new play for children and my parents decided to take me to see it. After all of the mass excitement in the lobby and pride of having the best box seats had worn off, the wicked witch had appeared on the stage and I got so scared that I hid in the corner, facing away from the stage and refused to come out for the rest of the play. It didn't help that my parents (my father wasn't acting in this one) cooed to me that it was all made up and it's not real and 'for god sakes, girl, you know this!' My imagination had a life of it's own and in it, the wicked witch was real and what was happening was just too scary to cope with. I trembled and shook and bit my lip until it was over and vowed never to see another play again.

I am, perhaps, blessed with an extraordinarily vivid imagination. This is often a good thing, like when I make up stories to entertain myself (and occasionally others) or when I can see solutions to problems where all obvious options have been exhausted. It becomes a pain in the ass when it comes to looking forward to anything. Like holidays, for example. Because I imagine every detail of what is about to happen and what I am about to see and how it would make me feel, I often and up disappointed at the reality. It feels like I've already done it. The experience loses the novelty factor. So now, I try not to look forward to anything, imagine anything real, I just let the reality do its thing and hope for a pleasant surprise. On the other hand, I can imagine all the worse case scenarios too which makes it a relief when none of them happen.

And, then, there are the literary heroes. It is safe to admire them because they will never get a chance to disappoint. This just doesn't work when it comes to film or tv. We all seem to have a hard time separating the actor from the character they play. We've all read about crazy fans who abuse actors in their private lives because of something their 'evil' character said or did.
This can be even worse for actors themselves. I have seen some so infected by the character they were playing that they became different people because of it. It becomes impossible to shake off.

As if imagining things that intricately makes them real.

As if God really made us in his image, down to the part where we, too, can create reality by willing it into existence.

When you come right down to it our personal realities are probably 70% made up. I don't want to stray into quantum physics here, so my percentage is a wild guess, but we all know that we paint our worlds in colours that just aren't there, at least some of the time. Deep down, we know. We have our imaginary view and we have our reality view of the world. We just can't cope with holding both views at the same time.

Why is that?