Two nights ago, I dreamt that I was lying in a light-filled room full of resting babies. Suddenly the baby next to me looked directly into my eyes and said, “We love you.”
Memory is not primarily a mental function. Memory constitutes as the body. When the body dies, memory dies too. Memory is weight. Excess of memory, excess of weight. Babies are what an absence of memory smells like.
Life swings between pain and pleasure. Everything is orderly, stable, secure, and then it’s not. Wanting and fearing establish themselves. We remember happiness. We run after it. We remember pain. We run away from it. Beliefs, assertions, opinions and much religious activity are products of this bifurcated mind.
Babies don’t have this mind. Neither do dogs. Well, some dogs do—the ones whose leash is held by an axe-split human.