My conviction remains intact that the mechanism by which Aboah killed and in turn survived, can only be explained by medical science, and that science will eventually discover his place in the broader context of evolution. But what science may never be able to explain is our ineffable fear of the alien among us; a fear which often drives us not to search for understanding, but to deceive, inveigle, and obfuscate. To obscure the truth not only from others, but from ourselves. DS
Among Halverson's belongings, I found a children's book of Norse legends. From what I can tell, the pictures show the end of the world - not in a sudden firestorm of damnation as the Bible teaches us, but in a slow covering blanket of snow. First the moon and the stars will be lost in a dense white fog, then the rivers and the lakes and the sea will freeze over. And finally a wolf named Skoll will open his jaws and eat the sun, sending the world into an everlasting night. I think I hear the wolf at the door. DS
Don't write this book. You'll perform a disservice through a field of inquiry that has always struggled for respectability. You're a gifted writer, but no amount of talent could describe the events that occurred in any realistic vein because they deal with alternative realities that we're yet to comprehend. And when presented in the wrong way, in the wrong context, the incidents and the people involved in them can appear foolish, if not downright psychotic. I also know that your publishing house is owned by Warden White, Incorporated ... a subsidiary of MacDougall-Kesler, which makes me suspect a covert agenda for your book on the part of the military-industrial-entertainment complex. FM
Whatever happened to playing a hunch, Scully? The element of surprise, random acts of unpredictabilty? If we fail to anticipate the unforeseen or expect the unexpected in a universe of infinite possibilities, we may find ourselves at the mercy of anyone or anything that cannot be programmed, categorized or easily referenced. FM
I'm the key figure in an on-going government charade, the plot to conceal the truth about the existence of extraterrestrials. It's a global conspiracy, actually, with key players in the highest levels of power, that reaches down into the lives of every man, woman, and child on this planet. So, of course, no one believes me. I'm an annoyance to my superiors, a joke to my peers. They call me Spooky. Spooky Mulder, whose sister was abducted by aliens when he was just a kid and who now chases after little green men with a badge and a gun, shouting to the heavens or to anyone who will listen that the fix is in, that the sky is falling and when it hits it's gonna be the shit-storm of all time. FM
In all my wildest dreams I would write like this.
I wish I could convey my thoughts as easily as this. I wish my vocabulary was this fantastic and enjoyable. I used to write down all my favorite quotes from the show to try and capture some of the genius. To copy the cadence. To steal the amazing essence of the writer's room for The X-Files.
I really think that back in my teens and even twenties I was a better writer. I'm not saying I was some sort of wordsmith but I had more flair. I was more eloquent. I wrote with more passion. I didn't struggle to finish a paragraph or even a thought. I had so many ideas back then I could fill notebooks in what seemed days. My head overflowed with so much dialogue that I had to keep a pad and pencil with me to write it down.
What happened? Not sure.
Life. Marriage. Work. House. Child.
Any of those? All of those?
I'd like to think that some of the brain cells that I used up getting to where I am will begin to reform now that I am here.
I can only hope that something inside my head will click back on and help me get back on track.