—from “Cambridge ”, Jorge Luis Borges
This invulnerable day with the knowledge that I will not die. Although somebody lies dead and somewhere certainly somebody is dying as much as I am, I decide to draw none from my last breath. Today my word feels binding. Therefore, it is. Having chosen life, I decide further: I shall become a something. Something, while the druidic school feasts and plays; while my students and friends tease out a spiny vine of drama from rock ruins; while she mourns. I shall become this something which is all I could become to be of some use: a worker. Not a craftsman, no. Let the others climb such an illusory hierarchy of skills. Not an artist, definitely. Let others feed on the concrete self-importance that they can never imagine as dream. Surely not – today – a godcreator. I shall not presume to toil under so a grand an assumption. A laborer is all I am, all I shall be in this indestructible moment. I am this employee of the universe. I am the drafting of the lesson plan, checking of the tests, breathing and all its corrections. I am the tossing of the square-holed coins. I am the work, the sheer telling of a story. Somewhere under this sun, within my pages, and among the wilting carnations, I will write: “Allow her rest. Allpeace upon her.”
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