Listen, dear one, to the wondrous play of consciousness as revealed in these sacred verses. The living being, in the span of a fleeting moment, experiences what seems to be death and revival, swept up by the illusion of change. Yet, with a mere opening of awareness, even within the vastness of space, it assumes the very form of space itself. This being thinks, “I am established here, in this support; I exist here,” and beholds, “This body with hands and feet is mine.” No sooner does it contemplate its body than it weaves stories of identity: “I am the son of this father; these are the years I have lived.” It recalls, “These are my delightful relatives; this is my pleasant dwelling. I was born, I was a child, and now I have grown to be like this.” All those relatives, too, move about as before, for in the unified expanse of dense consciousness, they exist within his own self. Before any of these names or forms arise in the forest of worldly existence, nothing whatsoever appears or becomes established—there is only pure space. Just as in a dream, consciousness is both the seer and the seen, so too in the waking world, only consciousness exists, always in unity. The experience of seer and seen, even in a dream, is nothing but consciousness itself. As it is in a dream, so does consciousness arise with the vision of the other world; and just as it arises there, so it arises here. Thus, whether it is dream, the other world, or this world—unreal or real—there is not the slightest difference, just as waves are not different from water. Therefore, this universe is unborn, for it is indestructible and like space; it does not truly exist. What appears is only consciousness. Even when objects seem present, this reality remains of the nature of the supreme sky—unchanging, infinite. Since objects arise from this, there is nothing apart from it, just as waves arise from water; and even the state of being a wave does not truly exist, like the horns of a hare. It alone appears as all objects, yet by its very nature it is never lost; therefore, there is truly no object to be seen, and so, how can there be the division of seer and seen? In just a moment, immediately after the illusion of death, the splendor of perceiving the three worlds arises as a mere appearance. According to place, time, initiation, sequence, arising, mother, father, lineage, age, awareness, location, intention, kin, servant, and the ebb and flow of effort, the consciousness-body perceives: “I am born, though never actually born,” along with place, time, action, substance, mind, intellect, and senses. Instantly, at the end of death, the body perceives youth: “This is my mother, this is my father, I was a child, I am this,” thus it thinks. Whatever sequence arises from memory—whether experienced or not—later emerges for him, just as a fruit follows a flower. It is felt that everything passes in a single blink; yet for Harishchandra, a night lasted twelve years. For those separated from their beloved, a single day becomes a year. “I died, I was born, another is my father”—even such experiences arise in the realm of dreams. Even for what has not been enjoyed, the thought of enjoyment arises; and when enjoyment has occurred, the thought of not having enjoyed appears—this is seen among gamblers and the like. Emptiness becomes filled, adversity is equal to celebration; separation and gain are alike in the awareness of intoxication, dream, and similar states. Just as sharpness resides in a mustard seed, or as one’s own pillar, or as a web of toy children constructed within, so too is this visible world not other than that. Thus, for the unborn, who is peaceful, for whom is bondage or liberation—and from where, and what are they? Worlds appear swiftly after the illusion of death, just as all forms arise for the living when the eye opens. They are composed of directions, time, calculation, space, nature, and action—countless manifestations, enduring until the end of a cycle. Even what has not been experienced or seen, though one may claim to have done it, becomes a memory in an instant, just as one’s own death in a dream. Thus, this endless illusion shines in the sky of consciousness, and the city called the world is but a projection without walls. The sense of “I,” the world, and the memory of creation all arise, produced solely by the repeated practice of distant imagination and its reversal. Thus, knowledge is twofold: of what is experienced and what is not. At first, it acts as the cause, but in essence, it is consciousness alone that operates. The state of having experienced does not arise within consciousness regarding what has not been experienced, just as the memory of a father does not occur in one who is not his son, whether in dream or illusion. Sometimes, setting aside even the state of memory, only a mere appearance shines forth—first as the form of the Lord of creation, and then successively thereafter. O slender one, this visible universe, beginning with the three worlds, remains in the memory of some as experienced, while for others it does not remain as a memory of experience. For some, it appears merely as an appearance, without recollection, because the rulership of atomic consciousness arises, like the chance meeting of a crow and a palm fruit. That which is utterly forgotten as the seen is called liberation; in that state, neither the desired nor the undesired exist at all. Without the attainment of absolute non-existence, apart from the persistence of the sense of “I” and the world, liberation, which is of the nature of non-arising, does not truly arise. The illusion of a snake in a rope—though the rope is always of the nature of non-arising and peaceful—does not cease as long as the association of the word and meaning “snake” persists. That which is only half-quieted is not truly quieted, for upon meeting with something else, another goblin arises at the end of the first, even for the wise. This worldly existence appears to be substantial and ultimate, but upon investigation, it is seen to lack a true cause; whatever appears here, disappears as well. In the creation of the forms of the Brahmin and Brahmin woman, memory is said to be the cause; but how could that memory arise without something to be remembered? Thus, the play of consciousness continues—unborn, undying, ever free—casting forth worlds and selves and memories, yet remaining ever as the pure, infinite sky.