A parable

I like to imagine there exists another paragraph to my favorite story, the parable Inferno, I, 32 by J. L. Borges.

In the middle of the 20th century, Borges, a sucessful writer, a beloved professor and a respected literary critic, was turning old. Like all men of his age, he comtemplated his own mortality and whether or not his life and his work had a higher purpose. But he had read Nietzsche. He knew about existentialism and nihilism. And he was hoping against hope that Nietzsche was wrong, that the cold slithering feeling in the back of his mind was wrong. He wanted to believe that everything he has done and accomplished in life has a significance and that meaning and significance were not just illusions. Borges wrote the parable to reassure himself, but he wasn't satisfied, because deep down he knew that the machinery of the world is oblivious of man.