Dinner with Borges

We find ourselves in a dark restaurant, where the servers move silently and the food never comes. I take out a notebook, ready to take some notes. You say, gently, smiling, no need, no need. I ask you about your work. Generally speaking…

You say, ah, you see, it isn’t my work. It’s by Borges. I am confused by this response. I want to ask you again, but I am afraid of appearing silly. You see my confusion, and continue explaining: well, he is the one behind the writing; I, in front. But you must write; you are Borges, I say. No, no, no, you quickly retort; I am nothing but myself. Borges—he’s everywhere, but he isn’t here. You point at your left breast.

A server bumps into a table behind you, and spills some drinks. You turn around briefly. Hmm, unfortunate, your face seems to say, but what can you do. So what are you up to nowadays, I ask. Mostly just taking long walks, thinking about grand questions. There is so much left to do, but I find that without the urgency of death—what’s the rush? It takes a few seconds for that to sink in.

The check is brought over, even though we hadn’t ordered anything. I’ve got it, you say. Could I ask you one more thing, I say, hesitantly. You glance up, looking at me, behind me, with your blind, perceptive eyes. Ahh…

Imagine you’re on a long, long road, a dirt road going on forever across rolling hills, golden with tall grass and occasional windmills. You’re walking alone, or at the very least, riding a horse. You look up. The sky is blue. You think about your parents, you think about your back pain, you think about what you dreamt about last night, you think about all these things and more until you no longer remember where you are going, until you no longer realize that the landscape has become familiar, that you are in fact going in a big circle.