From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 21 Aug 2001 03:35:17 -0000
Subject: Beautiful by Foxie Meg
Source: direct

Reply To: mrschatterly@hotmail.com

TITLE: Beautiful

AUTHOR: Foxie Meg

SUMMARY: The philosophical musings of
a woman in love on a rainy night... 

CATEGORY: MSR, V

RATING: G

ARCHIVE: Please, please, please!  Just 
keep my name and everything else with it.

FEEDBACK: *falls to her knees and begins
to grovel*  I live for the stuff.  Seriously.
I'm a feedback junkie.  I collect it.  Print
it out and frame it.  mrschatterly@hotmail.com

DISCLAIMER: This story belongs to me.  It's
all mine.  My brainchild.  And so help me,
Chris Carter, if you steal it... you just
THOUGHT Duchovny's lawsuit hurt.  Oh, that
wasn't what you meant by disclaimer, was it?
Well, we'll put it this way.  Don't try to
make money off my story, and I won't try to
make money off your characters. Deal?

AUTHOR'S NOTES: You could possibly think of 
this as a sort of "all things" story.  It was 
actually written before I knew anything about 
that episode, but it fits frighteningly well.

xXxXxXx

BEAUTIFUL

There's something I have to tell you and I 
don't know if I can say it with you standing 
here looking at me, blazing into my soul 
with those eyes of yours.  I'm also not sure 
I have much choice in the matter, because 
I didn't choose the wrong word a minute ago.  
I have to tell you.  It's a psychological, 
biological imperative.

The problem is, I have no idea what that 
something is that I need to tell you.

It has something to do with the way my soul 
swells at the thought of you, and something 
to do with the way your voice is the ocean 
crashing against my deserted shore, reminding 
me that some things still live.  It is 
something to do with the way you reflect the 
sky that has always reflected my soul.

I think it is something like the thought that 
you make me beautiful.  That I am a mirror, 
and when you stand and face me, what you 
really see is your beauty reflected in me.  
And that's all I am - your beauty.

When you are not here, I am empty, like a silver 
pane of glass faced with nothing, nothing to 
bounce back to the world.

They praise it as my beauty, my brilliance, but 
it's yours.

What I want to say to you is wrapped up in the 
music that I cannot convey here.  It is a mist, 
a muted grey ghost that amicably wanders the 
stone corridors, dancing through the shadows, 
breathing in the cold dampness that thrills me 
like something truly erotic.

Winter rains.

Winter rains that sing of springtimes to come.

I lean my forehead forward to rest in the hard 
planed curve of your shoulder that has been 
carefully carved and smoothed by a master 
sculptor.  If you never believed in God before, 
look into my mirror and believe now because no 
chaotic quirk of chance could have created the 
beauty that stands before me here.

You are not a mistake, a fluke, a mutant.

You are a consummate work of art; your body a 
sculpture that makes Michelangelo's Pieta look 
crude and childish, the work of an amateur wood 
carver.  Your voice is a symphony all its own 
with tiny sounds that convey the epic poetry of 
emotions that rage inside the vast exotic wildness 
I've come to recognize as your soul.

With my body I thee worship... and through my 
worship of you and your worship of me we both find 
a higher worship of the one who joins us with 
His own love.  I praise Him for your beauty that 
makes me beautiful, and thus all beauty is 
reflected back to Him and diffused throughout 
the universe.

The clock has passed over into morning and yet I 
cannot abandon my post for the warm comfort of my 
bed that has been calling me all day.

There is still something I have to say to you and 
I still don't know what it is.

Still it rains; still it rains.

The thunder and the lightning have made peace with 
each other and the earth, and still it rains in 
soothing rivulets that wash everything away like 
long-forgotten tears of joy and longing and need.

I need.

It is not you that I need.  I love having you by 
my side, with me, to experience these things but 
I would love these things - I would still be in
love - I would still be - if you were to cease 
to exist.

As unromantic as that sounds I know it comforts 
you.  It must comfort you if you love me, and if 
I love you, for I love our story, as you have 
taught me to do.  And you find comfort in the 
knowledge that the story will go on without you, 
without me, without either or both of us.

I know you do, for this is what comforts me as
well.

To know that the sun will rise tomorrow even if I 
do not - this is what rocks me to sleep each night 
with its soothing lullaby.

Some things never change and time still ticks on 
until it is no more, and yet nothing ever changes 
for time was just a player on the stage of love.  
Love is all that matters, and love is unchanging.

We say we love each other but that is not true.  
Love loves us, much as songs sing us or poetry 
recites us.  When we try to sing, or recite, or 
love, it comes out as reedy and unsubstantial as 
child's whisper in the torrents of a hurricane.  
Yet it is not ugly, and the poetry, the music, the 
Love indulges us and allows us to harmonize until 
we all are glory together --

Until our combined symphony is the warm comforting
crackle of a fireplace in winter and the 
unimaginable blaze of the sun's boiling surface; 
the gentle trickle of a tiny mountain stream and 
the crushing power of Niagra Falls; the mew of a 
newborn kitten mingled with earth-shattering roar of
a prowling lion.

We are all these things and none would be complete 
without the other.

We are made this way, so that all things cling 
together and all things lead us to each other and 
to the joy that laughs us, the music that sings 
us, the tears that cry us, the Love that creates us.

We are beautiful.

We are each other.

We are spirit and flesh, fire and ice, river and 
wind and rain and sky.  And beyond us the heavens 
still stretch wide, their womb pregnant with stars 
older than time and galaxies not yet born.

Beloved, be Loved.


xXxXxXx

THE END