On time, by Jorge Luis Borges

Denying temporal succession, denying the 'I', denying the astronomical universe, are apparent despairs and secret consolations. Our destiny (unlike the hell of Swedenborg and the hell of Tibetan mythology) is not frightening because it is unreal; it is frightening because it is irreversible and iron-like. Time is the substance of which I am made. Time is a river that carries me, but I am the river; it is a tiger that tears me apart, but I am the tiger; it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire. The world, unfortunately, is real; I, unfortunately, am Borges.