put the best topic please

Now that you’ve read Borges and I, write your own version. The key to understanding this short piece of writing is understanding that Borges, like all of us, is trying to negociate the different aspects of his life. As you write, consider the following:

Who are you?
What are the roles that you play in your life?
How do they interact with each other?
Write at least one full paragraph.

Please I need a good topic

Here is the STORY

Text is from Borges, Labyrinths: Selected Stories and Other Writings (New York: New
Directions, 1964), pp.246-47. Plain text precedes hypertext version with notes and
commentary by Martin Irvine.

The other one, the one called Borges, is the one things happen to. I walk through the
streets of Buenos Aires and stop for a moment, perhaps mechanically now, to look at the
arch of an entrance hall and the grillwork on the gate; I know of Borges from the mail
and see his name on a list of professors or in a biographical dictionary. I like hourglasses,
maps, eighteenth-century typography, the taste of coffee and the prose of Stevenson; he
shares these preferences, but in a vain way that turns them into the attributes of an actor.
It would be an exaggeration to say that ours is a hostile relationship; I live, let myself go
on living, so that Borges may contrive his literature, and this literature justifies me. It is
no effort for me to confess that he has achieved some valid pages, but those pages cannot
save me, perhaps because what is good belongs to no one, not even to him, but rather to
the language and to tradition. Besides, I am destined to perish, definitively, and only
some instant of myself can survive in him. Little by little, I am giving over everything to
him, though I am quite aware of his perverse custom of falsifying and magnifying things.
Spinoza knew that all things long to persist in their being; the stone eternally wants to be
a stone and the tiger a tiger. I shall remain in Borges, not in myself (if it is true that I am
someone), but I recognize myself less in his books than in many others or in the laborious
strumming of a guitar. Years ago I tried to free myself from him and went from the
mythologies of the suburbs to the games with time and infinity, but those games belong
to Borges now and I shall have to imagine other things. Thus my life is a flight and I lose
everything and everything belongs to oblivion, or to him.

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