Remix:Borges and I

It is to the other, to She, that life occurs. I quietly wander a familiar path of comfort, frozen, one could say hypnotically to observe the world through a haloed lens. Of She I hear songs of praise. I like vintage optical devices, nests and hives, botany, the taste of freshly picked produce, and the musical words of foreign languages. She would agree upon these choices, but in a naive way that turns them into attributes of a saint. It would not be an exaggeration to claim that our relationship is filled with confilct. I live, I let myself live, so that she may dance across the world connecting with people in the name of art and this circus act justifies me. It poses no great difficulty for me to admit that her nurturing services have produced some interesting creations. Yet, these humanitarian acts can not save me, perhaps because all that is true does not belong to anyone, not even to the other, but to the natural and historical. Nonetheless, I am destined to lose all that I am, as I shrink in my existence within this multifaceted crystal. Fleeting moments, nostalgic memories allow me to live on in the other. Slowly, I continue to give in to her, even though I am aware of her polar dreamlike tendencies to fly away; chasing butterflies and healing the wounds of the war. Buddha understood that all beings are connected; a lotus blooms even with its roots in the ugliest water. I will not remain in her, not in myself, but I see myself less in her creative endeavors than in those of many others, or in the soil of my Grandmother's enduring hands. Years ago, I tried to free myself from her, attempting to move on from this heroine that sacrifices part of me each time. I attempted to return to where I belong, remaining in one place, isolated from society. But, that She too has taken and I will have to conceive of new ideas. In this way, my life is a disappearing act of a magician and I appear as a faint ghost of the past.

I do not know which of us is writing this.