You figure it out.

Fox Mulder...Chris...Thirteen...etc.

                  Writings of an Empty Soul. - Scott Miller

Tonight, I made a mistake.  I see very clearly.  The voice
across the phone brings out no emotion.  I feel no pain, only
a dull aching emptiness.

I get in my car.

I drive.  I don't think.  Driving is automatic.  For a moment
I think about ignoring the stop lights, the speed limits.
Just go, I tell myself.  Go through the light.  It won't last
long.  And then maybe it will all end.  All the pain would
go away in one brief flash of light and scream of metal.

The light turns green.  I blindly drive through it.

They wanted to know where I was going.

I told them only that I was leaving.  That was the truth.  Its all
I knew.  I knew I was leaving.  I didn't know where.  Just that I needed
to go.  That my presence here was somehow wrong.

So I drove.  Not fast, just the speedlimit.  Autopilot.  Not thinking.

Not feeling.

Driving.

I stop to look in the house.  Everything is in order.

I turn my car back on and drive.

Suddenly I am here... Wondering.

What should I do?  Do I deserve to be where I am.  They have told me I'm
gifted.  Cursed, I think.

I feel empty.  Alone.

I loved her, but she sees nothing but a shell in me.  No care.
She is so beautiful, but now unreachable.

Everything I touch, I ruin.  Its all my fault.  Just once, could I do
something right?  Never, I think.  My whole existance seems wrong.

My whole being says I don't belong here.  That maybe I don't belong
anywhere.

I find myself here.   In the darkness, my fingers mirroring my most
basic thoughts.  I don't know why I'm writing this, only that it must be
done.  Someone must know.  So I type.  But now I am finished, and where
I go from here, not even god knows.

They returned to their own places, thinking not another thought of me.
I am forgotten.  I am alone.  Where do I fit in?  Perhaps nowhere.

Ah, here come the tears.  Shed for whom, for what?  Because I am empty.
They now swell into my eyes.  I don't know why.  Millions of years
of evolution causing a response.  Is it to alert someone to my distress?
I rather think no one cares.  But still they flow.

I realize what I am doing is worthless, pointless.  This note will be
overlooked, disregarded.  Maybe some psychologist will see this as a cry
for help.  He will be wrong.  I am not crying for help.  I am crying
out for my own misery.  I don't expect an answer.

I see now what I have written.  It seems out of place.  I know it came
from me, and these feelings are inside me, but they still seem detached
from me, now that they are on the cold blue light of the screen.

Can these words ever adequately describe my feelings.  Somehow I think
not.  But still I type...