From: Kate Rickman Date: Fri, 02 Apr 1999 19:36:36 -0500 Subject: Bleak Mood (1/1) Kate Rickman TITLE: Bleak Mood (1/1) AUTHOR: Kate Rickman E-MAIL: kate.rickman@mindspring.com DISTRIBUTION: anywhere RATING: G CLASSIFICATION: VA SPOILERS: None SUMMARY: Scully grows reflective on a rainy day. She is not a happy camper. Noromo-safe zone. *** I am in a bleak mood. The sky, gray and dense with unshed rain, presses down against the hills and trees outside the motel window where I stand with my forehead pressed against the glass. The air barely moves, as though the world were holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. A constant low murmur of cars on the highway reminds me of other people's business. The same sound speaks volumes to me, sibilant warnings that I need to pull some focus into my life. A tree leans against my window; I watch the leaves tremble slightly in the stillness. It is a good day for meditation. I look back over the nearly two-score years of my life. The sight does not depress me. Many good things happened in that lifetime. I made a great start. Then the ball dropped--thunk--flat and out of air. My life has been like that, a series of good starts and then nothing. I ended up trying to play the game with a flat ball. It's been hard work and I didn't get very far. I am certainly not having fun. But here I stand, flabby ball in my hands, alone in the middle of the court. And I keep on playing. Why? Because it's easier to struggle on with that nothing ball than to drop it once and for all and walk off of the court. I search for melancholy to match my mood, to wrap around me. There is a certain satisfaction to wallowing in melancholy. I buy things to fill the emptiness in my life. But they are cold and hard objects that leave gaps between them. I can see through those gaps now, into the hollowness. It is cold there and without promise. It is a bottomless space and will not be filled this way. Now I find myself standing, stranded, awakened from a dream and in yet another strange motel room. My eyes travel to the wall that divides my room from Mulder's. Through it I can see him surrounded by a litter of papers and folders, hunched over his laptop picking out words and sentences, oblivious to my despair on the far side of the lath and plaster that separates him from me. I could forgive myself if I thought I had dreamt my way here. I feel so sorry for myself that I can almost hear the violins. I feel sorry for myself because I'm stuck in a life that I don't want. I feel sorry for myself because I'm stupid enough to believe that I have a right to the life of my choice. But, most of all, I feel sorry for myself because the choices in my previous 35 years have lead me into this complete sham. And I did it to myself. I need to shed this skin like an irritated snake. I don't need happiness right now. I need this pain, a Brillo pad to cleanse my soul from the inside out. Now I know why I haven't been able to date outside my sterile relationship with Mulder. My body inhabits a universe misplaced from my soul. It is from the soul that connections run, like fine telephone wires. In my case, these wires run back into nothing as they try to connect with me. I am not there. Lately, everywhere I look, I find messages staring back at me. Black text, capitol letters and small type, barely visible. Where is all this information coming from? It spills from the mouths of strangers and from between the pages of books. It is composed of words that describe someone else's life, and mine at the same time. My degrees and certificates are stuffed in dark boxes and rammed behind the covers of dusty books, out of sight. I bought quick respectability with those papers and now I hide the shame of my facility where no one can see it. A light snaps on in a darkened room. There's a naked woman standing there and I avert my eyes to give her some privacy. A thought niggles at the back of my brain. I know this woman, warts and all. She is me. I envy people whose lives run smoothly, even in small circles. *** End 1/1