I am not afraid to admit now that I was friends with Octavio Paz. My name is Antonio, I am dead now, and we were more than friends – I was his confidant, his student, his admirer. Yes, I wanted to be his lover, but it never happened, because Paz would not completely embrace the love that soaked his poetry. Paz had limits; I have none.
When I died I was with him. I remember the look on his face as I convulsed, shook, and expired. If I am clinical it is because I no longer associate “me” with the body that I once possessed. I did, and perhaps, I think, I still should, but I cannot bring myself to care for any of those physical matters. I am dead, that is enough.
And yet I remember Octavio.
Like I said, he watched me die. And then do you know what he did? He left my body there, he poured himself a glass of water and downed it in a single gulp, and then he called a friend and discussed a short story by Borges, and then they talked about Cortazar’s latest novel, which he hated. It was odd. He didn’t mention anything about me, and I watched (how? How did I watch? How am I here now? Where is “here”? Who am I telling this story to?) as he went about an ordinary day doing ordinary things. He made coffee. He chatted with his wife. He watched television while eating lunch.
And me? I don’t know. I loved him. My body lay there, dead and neglected. I loved him. Did he even know I was there?
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The above piece of writing comprises part of my fragments project, some of which are available on this website. I intend to add new fragments piecemeal, not in any particular order, and as the occasion take me.