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.