Borges and Him, He and Me

I have heard of this fellow, Borges. I have read some of his stories. It would seem that the I, of whom he, Borges, speaks has not avoided the fate he professed for himself. Borges lives on; he lives on without I, but, obviously, not without me, because I am still here. I am still here, with Borges, just the two of us, at least that is what I hope; it might be frightening to have an unknown third in our group. I hear that Borges likes hourglasses, maps, eighteenth-century typography, the taste of coffee and the prose of Stevenson, but I am suspicious that these are superficial attributes that were once whole, and that he, “I”, but not me, has lost to Borges or oblivion. It’s really too bad too, because I would have liked to have known him, not Borges, but “I”, but I can only see Borges in the literature that once justified him, “I”; those pages have only saved Borges. I search for him, “I”, whenever I read his, Borges’, work, to no avail. Even when I stumble upon a gem where he, “I”, has slipped through the waves of Borges, I realize, he doesn’t even know the difference. He doesn’t know who has written those pages.
I wonder if this is to be the fate for me. Is there a Borges to live on after I perish? Do I have a Borges to whom I lose everything and to whom everything belongs? Possible. Unlikely, considering I am me, not him, “I”. As of now, I am a stone remaining a stone, a tiger remaining a tiger, but I suppose nonetheless, it is possible in the future.

Other

I was waiting on the platform, last in the queue for the approaching bus (as usual, running late). The folks in front of me all got on, one looking a bit mischievous and another with a suspiciously long neck and jacket missing a button. Upon arriving to the doors, the driver shuts the doors in my face and says "No room".

I had to walk to work, and proceeded to get fired for being late again.

Hypothetical

If there were to be two men, and the two men were to happen to be on a bus. One man might happen to intentionally jostle the other man, as people may have decided to get on and off the bus. As his frustration may grow with each subsequent jostle, maybe, elbow to the ribs, and possibly, trampled foot, the man may have spotted a vacated seat and he could have occupied it. Later, if the man were to meet a friend at what may be the gare Saint-Lazare, upon their possible meeting, the friend may consider advising the man to add another button to his overcoat.

Living-Dead Gertrude Stein

In the day there is safety, in the night there is unknown, in

the shadows there is death, in the light there is readying. In the

light there is planning. In planning readying is everything, in readying

planning is daunting, in planning there is resignation, in planning there

is anxiety, in planning there is easing and completely forgotten there is damnation.

All the axes have blades and all the shells have triggers and all the graves have emptiness

and all the dead have risen. This makes apocalypse.