【引用】Life Slipped By

Dear Dana，

All my life I have had everything I should have wanted， and yet， deep
inside myself， I have always yearned for more.

My father raised me to be the next Julius Caesar， and until he died， he
believed I“d come to my senses eventually and follow the destiny he“d
envisioned. He“d roll his eyes and call me a romantic and an idealist，
but he never turned his back on me. He was always there when I needed
him， but I never knew how much I needed him until he was gone. My
mother never understood my world of books and philosophy， but I was
always welcome in her world of society and pretty appearances. My
parents loved each other passionately and I was their precious son.
Each loved the reflection of the other they saw in me， and they loved
me， but I wonder if they ever saw me for who I truly am.

I married too young， but many men do. I married for the wrong reasons，
but many men do. I had a child before I was finished being one myself，
but many men do. If I was unhappy， it was no one“s fault but my own.
Melissa would have picked up my footprints and bronzed them， if she
could have. Sarah was dead， so I loved my Sam， and I tried to adore his
mother as much as she adored me.

Life slipped by. One day blended politely into another. I played my
role， supplied my lines， and drifted farther and farther from the person
I“d always intended to be.

They say on the Great Plains， there were once buffalo herds that
stretched as far as a man can see. Once， Sam and I saw a buffalo at a
circus， and we talked about it: what it would be like to see a hundred
thousand of them at once. He was seven， I was twenty-four， and he asked
if we could go west and see the buffalo before they were gone. I said
“perhaps“ and bought him too much candy because I was too much of a
coward to say we never would. My family would never say “to Hell with
civilization，“ pack our saddlebags， and ride off into the sunset，
whipping our horses wildly and waving our hats in the dusty wind. We
would never go to the Paris opera house， spit over the edge of our box，
and then try to look innocent as the people below cursed us in French.
We would never be anything but the beautiful， too-tight role society
expected of us.

I had begun to content myself with that， and you can“t know how much
that frightened me. No ?yes， you can know. I know you， Dana， whether
you want me to or not， just as you know me.

Then suddenly， it was all gone. My world， along with every other
American“s， had come to an end. For the first time since I was sixteen，
I wasn“t Melly“s husband or Sam“s father or Bill and Teena Mulder“s only
son. As much as I ached for them， for the first time， I could be anyone
I wanted， but I“d almost forgotten who I“d wanted to be. I wrote to

Melissa that I was like Diogenes: roaming the Earth， holding my dim
lantern up in the darkness， and searching for someone who would tell him
the truth.

A man should be careful what he looks for. One day， Dana， a familiar
soul quietly stepped into my path， and I can tell you in all honesty: I
will never be the same.

Each time I swore I was returning to Washington and yet found my horse
pointed toward Dr. Waterston“s plantation， I had a dozen practical
explanations ?some even believable. You are much better with
practicality， Dana. You asked why I kept coming back， and I lied and
said， “to fix the hole in your barn roof and split more kindling，
Ma“am.“ I asked why you kept letting me come back， and you said， “You
bring me coffee beans， among other things， Mr. Mulder.“

For a man who convinced himself he wasn“t in love with you that fall， I
will say this: in Georgia， immediately after the war， coffee beans were
fifty dollars an ounce， love. Gold was forty， flour was thirty， and
pretty young women ?without husbands and babies and holes in their
roofs - were roughly ten cents. I bought coffee beans.

Despite what I tried to tell myself， loving you wasn“t a product of
reasoning and practical statistics， or of loneliness and lust. It just
came， I could not say from where， and refused to explain itself. It was
a truth inside my self； I only had to discover it. I love you. I did

then； I do to this day. And， laugh if you like， but I am sure I have
loved you in a dozen lifetimes before this one.

Long ago， a scientist named Paracelsus wrote that man is not body； the
heart， the spirit is man， and each spirit is part of a larger whole.
When one soul connects with another， however briefly， like two metals
fused by fire， both are forever transformed.

“Passing stranger， you do not know how longingly I have looked upon you.
You must be she I was seeking. You give me the pleasure of your eyes，
face， flesh， and you take of my beard， breast， and hands in return. I
will see to it I do not lose you.“ I wrote that to you once， Dana， but
you never received it. I wonder how our time together would have been
different if you had.

You bring courage and color and balance to my life. My world with you
is vivid； my world without you is gray. You made me feel whole， and I
made you feel second best. I went chasing fireflies when I wanted
fireworks， and now I can only say I am sorry. You were never second
best. No one ever has or ever will touch the place you do in my soul.
If I mistook what I felt for a lesser love， it was only because I had
little previous acquaintance with the emotion.

I loved Sarah， but I was a boy playing at love. And， as a man I clung
to secret dreams of a life that I had long outgrown. I have put away my

childish things， Dana. If I could open my heart and show you what is
inside it， perhaps you would believe me， but I cannot. There are a
finite number of second-chances in each life， and I used mine up long
ago.

Forms change， times change， but we are all parts of an evolving whole，
and souls do not forget each other. We have met before， Dana， and I，
like Paracelsus， believe we will meet again. In some future world， when
we pass on the street， I pray that I have the sense to stop， grin
sarcastically， and ask， “Where have you been all my lives?“ And you will
look up at me with those big blue eyes and answer in your logical
manner， “Right underneath your nose， Mulder.“

I have been fortunate to share my path through life with several
remarkable people and truly blessed that you have been one of them.
Know that wherever you are， whatever you are doing， in this lifetime or
the next， I love you. Eternally. As you told me once: death does not
stop love. I will never forget you； you are burned into my soul and I
am forever transformed. I will always scan the crowds， searching for a
woman who holds the other half of who I am， because until you return， or
until I find you again， half of me is missing. The rest is silence. I
cannot hold you， but the hardest thing I have ever done - that I will
ever do - is let you go.

Mulder

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