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Maybe it really is crazy: following someone I don’t know anything about and about whom nothing knowable can be learned. Placing trust (the greatest trust) in someone I met only recently, a baby, tiny, toothless, chubby! I think it is to my credit that this idea (to follow him) came into my life as unexpectedly as he did. And that I can trust myself (my trust) without reservation, precisely because there are sound reasons for distrusting myself. How about you? Are you crazy too?

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The baby looks at us (from the circle of his face, which today strikes us as particularly full) as if we were, yes, lunatics. His question (we don’t hear it, we sense it – these are the questions we have felt the need of for so long, but now they frighten us) is: How can you be the way you are? We don’t give in to a weak counter-question. We don’t ask: How exactly are we? Instead we submit to being viewed in this way (from the circle of his face), as if we were crazy. Suddenly we can’t get enough of this gaze.

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Not to bother the baby, just as it doesn’t bother us. Not supporting any effort. Stopping short of futility by relaxing all strain. Letting thoughts sink into the groundless void, and remaining unimpressed by that. The emotions are at rest. The baby’s long stretches of sleep teach us a kind of first rule: Take a vacation from everything (once applied, there is nothing more to be learned in this area).

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The baby’s perfection encounters our imperfection (that too is something we find difficult to admit: Basically we consider ourselves perfect. What makes this admission even harder is that we are in fact perfect). In this collision, the baby helps us by miming the needy creature (which in fact it is; its perfection does not leave anything out). Still, we don’t readily shed all our dross. We are slow to be purified. We look to the baby for an answer. All it wants is to drink.

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There’s no need for us to get used to it, that’s how quickly we say our baby. Our baby. Our. Our. Our. Our. Our. We joggle the word every which way until it either divulges its sense or confesses its non-sense. But nothing like that happens. We continue to say and feel: it is our baby.

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To be in the world without being of the world. Gliding through the waters of his gaze into a sense of the unknown meaning. Without sighs: which we will never be able to utter. When the baby’s gaze flows toward us, that flow is, for us, at the same time a pull, as of a current. Directions are always all directions. We find comfort in the absence of any visible intention. We follow the invisible one.

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In the past, without the baby, one day followed another. Today, with the baby, we dive through the days. Each time we rise to the surface of a day, another one falls upon us. Again we float upward, and a new day descends. It’s almost as if we had exchanged the horizontal dimension for the vertical. It’s as if we had lost the night.