He walked toward the sheets of flame. They did not bite his flesh, they caressed him and flooded him without heat or combustion. With relief, with humiliation, with terror, he understood that he also was an illusion,I do not really exist, and neither does she.
that someone else was dreaming him.
(Jorge Luis Borges, in The Circular Ruins)
We are creations of a mind.
We can't exist.
But we pretend we do.
I said I, and not he. Perhaps because when I think about her, I am not myself the rational one who writes, but I am he the one who exists in my imagination, the one who loves as if he were human, and not a mere character of my mind living an adventure on stage.
We pretend very well.
We are not simply creations of a mind but collective creations of two minds.
We shouldn't exist.
But we couldn't resist not doing so.
I said we, and not they. Perhaps because when we think of each other we can't see the rational beings that act and write, but breathe only for the two lovers in their imaginary world as if they were not mere illusions.
I once wrote about a world on fire, and when I read it I was sweating. I then put the words in my character's imaginary mind, and when he finally played his part he set his heart on fire. I could feel the flames, but it was just a play.
She pretends it's just a play.
The play doesn't really exist.
The play is over. We shouldn't be here.
We are just pretending.