A/N: This was inspired by 'Borges and I' by Jorge Luis Borges, which is also where the title is quoted from. As someone who loves writing I found it to be very thought provoking, and I recommend you try and read it (It's short, so no worries).
I had this fic sitting on my hard-drive for ages. I wanted to continue it but didn't know how. I came back to it four years later and realized I couldn't figure out how to continue it because it was already finished. Short, but finished. So there you go.
I hope you enjoy :)
Those Pages Cannot Save Me
Even though he didn't exist, he was still able to think. Though he didn't know whether this meant his thoughts mattered or not.
At that particular moment of nonexistence, locked in an asylum beyond the panels of ink, his existence was not the most pressing question on the clown's mind, as The Joker had dreamt the night before of vicious characters with dark shading, framed by dramatic angles. They were plotting the death of Batman.
They were writing the death of Bruce Wayne.
Speech bubbles, not really bubble shaped, had calmly discussed sale numbers, movie deals and story arcs. Joker was no stranger to these people, and vice versa; they defiled his every thought. The scratching of pens, the clicking of keyboards, the shuffling of papers. Who needed and ipod with that eternal orchestra playing the soundtrack to the universe?
Yet...
Does the universe exist if Batman gets killed?
Some universes must keep existing, Joker decided. Different titles, different continuities; a million different Jokers, a billion different Batmans, looking thousands of different ways in a hundred different forms.
But he was The Joker; not A Joker. He was the fundamental linchpin in his own existence, just as Batman was the linchpin in the existence of the world. It was something he had wanted to explain to the shrinks, but they didn't really exist so he didn't bother.
It was up to him to save Batman.
No.
It was up to him to save the world.