Just as the delicate veins trace patterns upon a leaf, as waves ripple across the surface of water, as ornaments shape themselves from gold, or as heat radiates from fire, so too does this threefold world arise and abide. It is at once identical with That—the ultimate reality—and yet appears distinct. The world is born from That, rests in That, and is, in truth, nothing but That itself. This reality is the Self, Brahman, the innermost essence of all beings. When That is truly known, the world is understood; when That remains unknown, the world too remains veiled in mystery. For the sake of scriptures and worldly discourse, the wise have given names to this all-pervading presence—calling it 'consciousness,' 'Brahman,' or 'Self'—though its true nature is beyond all names. This pure experience, untouched by joy or resentment even when the senses meet their objects, is the very Self: consciousness itself, imperishable and unchanging. Subtler and clearer than the vastness of space, this consciousness-Self holds within it the reflection of the world, which appears separate, yet is only its own delight. When the intellect imagines itself apart from this Self, then greed, delusion, and other afflictions arise. But when there is no sense of separation, the intellects exist only within That. For one who is bodiless, whose nature is undivided consciousness, how could confusion arise—how could shame, fear, or sorrow take hold? Why, then, O seeker, are you troubled by imaginings such as shame or sorrow, which are mere products of bodily identification and have no reality for the bodiless Self? The unbroken consciousness-Self is never destroyed, even when the body perishes. If those who are deluded and do not see rightly are untouched by destruction, how much more so is this true for the wise? That which, even as the sun moves across the sky, neither comes nor goes, know that to be the true person—not the body. Whether the body exists or not, this person abides in all three worlds, knowing or unknowing; when the body falls away, the Self does not perish. All the varied sufferings you perceive belong only to the body, not to the consciousness-Self, which can never be grasped. Standing beyond the reach of mind, like the vast emptiness of space, how could consciousness ever be affected by pain or pleasure? Just as a bee leaves the lotus and soars into the sky, consciousness—the Self—departs from the cage of the body, carrying with it the impressions it has gathered. If the essence of Self is unreal within the body, then when the body is lost, what is truly lost, and for what do you grieve? Hold firmly to the truth; let not delusion arise. For the pure Self, there are no desires at all. When consciousness is a witness—equal, clear, and free from distinctions—the worlds appear within it spontaneously, like rays shining within a flawless jewel. The connection between consciousness and the world, free from desire, is like images reflected in a mirror—mere appearances. In the same way, difference and non-difference between Self and world are established, just as unity and duality are seen in the reflections of a shield or a lifeless body. Just as the presence of the sun alone gives rise to activity on earth, so too does the existence of consciousness produce this world. When the attachment to the body ceases, this worldly state dissolves, and the vastness of space arises in your mind as well. Just as a lamp’s radiance flows naturally from its mere presence, so too does the activity of the world arise from the inherent nature of consciousness. First, from the essence of the supreme Self, the mind emerges. Through the mind, this world is woven—a web spun from its own imaginations. As emptiness shines through emptiness, or as pure space gives rise to the blue of the sky, so too do beautiful forms flourish. When the mind dissolves through the cessation of thoughts, the mist of worldly delusion fades away. Then, pure consciousness shines forth, like the clear sky after autumn rains—one, unborn, original, and infinite, resting within itself. The mind, which is of the nature of action, arises first from thought, adopting the nature of the lotus-born creator. From this, it produces the endless diversity of the world, just as a naive child conjures up phantom forms in play. What is made of non-being appears real at first, then dissolves and vanishes again. The mind, spread out as consciousness, takes on a luminous form, like circles of water in the vast ocean. This manifestation arises in the sky—without a doer, without limbs—a wondrous vision. There is no seer, yet experience persists; it is ever wakeful, yet displays dreams. It appears established in marvelous form, creating future cities, and abides like a whirlpool in water—its heat as insubstantial as that of a monkey’s imagined fire. Though it seems to possess form, it is devoid of emptiness, like the sun’s brilliance in the sky. It is visible in space like a cluster of gems, yet has no support. Like a city conjured by thought, it appears tangible and experienced, yet is made of nothing; its essence is but the semblance of a story’s meaning, existing nowhere, yet seeming to exist. Though utterly devoid of substance, it seems to have a core; like a mountain in a dream, it glows with forms like the sky, yet is only emptiness. Like an autumn cloud seen from afar, its dissolution is imperceptible; like a color in the sky, it is visible but without substance. It takes the form of a dream-woman’s embrace—seeming meaningful but truly meaningless; like a blooming garden of the mind, it appears delightful but lacks any real essence. It stands like light without brilliance, like a painted sun or fire; it is experienced like a fanciful kingdom—unreal, without true existence. Like a painted lotus pond without fragrance, it is displayed in emptiness, adorned with many colors, its nature only a form. In truth, it is spread out with withered, feeble shoots of elements; inert and without essence, it shines like the trunk of a plantain tree. Spread out like a circle of darkness seen by an opened eye, it is utterly unreal in form, yet appears as if directly perceived. Like a bubble on water, without enjoyment, hollow within yet vibrant in appearance, its essence is the taste of reality—arising and passing without interruption. Like mist that spreads out, even if grasped, it is nothing at all—an inert abode of emptiness, a void for some, as minute as an atom. Thus, the world and all its forms, though appearing so vivid and real, are but reflections within the infinite, pure consciousness—unborn, undivided, ever-present.