In the highest and most supreme state, where purity and emptiness reign even beyond the subtle element of space, how could there be any existence of things such as the world, Mount Meru, the oceans, or the sky? In that which is truly nothing—utterly empty—how could anything at all exist? If something were to exist there, why is it never perceived as present? How could anything arise from nothingness—by what means, from where, and how? Just as a mountain cannot possibly emerge from the empty space within a pot, so too, in that pure emptiness, where could anything be born? It is simply not possible. Light and shadow cannot exist together; darkness cannot dwell within the sun, nor can fire exist within ice. So too, how could anything exist in that which is formless and void? It is as unreasonable to imagine Mount Meru within a single atom as it is to imagine anything existing within the unmanifest. The coming together of what is and what is not is as impossible as the union of sunlight and shadow. While it makes sense to say that a sprout exists in a seed that has form—like the mighty banyan tree within its tiny seed—it is not reasonable to claim that this vast world exists within something entirely formless. Whatever is not perceived by the mind or any sense, whether in another place or another person, does not exist at all for the awareness of that particular mind. This is what is truly taught. If someone says that an effect returns to become its cause, such a one is confused, for how does the effect arise in the first place, and what are its cooperating causes? Set aside the imagined distinctions of cause and effect, constructs of those with dull understanding. Know instead that whatever truly exists—this world, which has neither beginning nor end—alone stands as reality. If you say that the original sprout of the world exists in that supreme state, then tell me: by what cooperating causes does it arise? For when there are no cooperating causes, the emergence of a sprout is never seen—just as no one has ever seen the daughter of a barren woman. If something is said to arise without any cooperating causes, that is nothing but the root cause itself—the Self—remaining as it always is, in its own nature. At the very beginning of creation, Brahman alone abides in itself, taking on the form of creation. Yet, being formless, where is the sequence of cause and effect? If earth, water, and the other elements, or anything else, come from somewhere to act as auxiliary causes, their prior existence itself is a flaw in this reasoning. Therefore, to say that the world arises peacefully from the Supreme, with or without auxiliary causes, is the statement of a child, not of the wise. Thus, O Rama, the world never was, is not, nor will be; only the pure space of consciousness shines, like a reflection in oneself. When there is the complete absence of the world, then, O Rama, all that is truly is Brahman and nothing else. That which ceases because of the prior destruction or absence of something else does not truly cease in the mind, for it remains unpacified there. Therefore, only the total absence of the perceived world is reasonable in every way; there is no other reasoning for the cessation of suffering. This awareness, the very space of consciousness that stands as the origin of the world, is the ‘I’ itself, as well as all forms, lights, thoughts, and so on. This is the sun and all that follows; this is the earth and all things upon it; this is the year and its passage; this is an epoch, a moment, death, and birth. This is the tumult at the end of an epoch; this is the great end of an age; this is the beginning of creation, and that is the sequence of being and non-being. These are hundreds of thousands of epochs, the myriad universes, the countless hosts of Brahmas and Indras, the powers of Vishnu and others. Some of these have matured, some have arisen again, some are the networks of abodes, others the divisions of space, time, and art. Yet, the great consciousness—the supreme, unbounded, infinite space—remains as it always was: peaceful, established in its own nature. All these are like rays from thousands of atoms, inherent in the great consciousness. They exist within and neither come nor go. Whatever wonder arises within itself from consciousness appears as the manifestation of creation—shining forth as form, yet without any real substance. They neither arise nor perish, neither come nor go, like the lines arranged within a great rock—immovable and ever-present. These creations arise spontaneously within the pure Self, just as portions of space appear within the sky—formless within the formless. Like the liquidity of water, the vibrations of eternal movement, or the eddies in the ocean, so too are qualities or perhaps their possessors. This alone exists as a mass of pure consciousness, established as such—beginning and ending with rising and setting, infinite, peaceful, and all-pervading. To say that, in the absence of auxiliary causes, the world is void, or that a self-born creator arises, is but the babble of a madman. One whose mind is free from all stains of worldly activity, who has cast off every bed of doubt, who has dispelled the deep sleep of delusion, and whose world is adorned with the awakening from the fear of becoming—such a one is truly awakened. O descendant of Raghu, at the beginning of creation and dissolution, it is memory itself that becomes the first progenitor, the original creator. From that will, which is of the nature of memory, this world arises; thus, this city of imagination shines forth, established by the former creator. Yet, even though it appears so, O Rama, the existence of that former creator does not truly persist—just as a great tree does not remain suspended in the sky. O Brahman, does any prior memory exist at the beginning of creation? How could previous memory survive, when it is destroyed by the great delusion of dissolution? Before the great dissolution, the wise ones—Brahma and the others of old—indeed attained liberation; they certainly reached the state of Brahman. Who, then, is there to recall previous memories? Since the one who remembers is liberated, memory itself becomes rootless. Thus, in the absence of the rememberer, how, by whom, and in what way could that memory arise? Surely, in the great cycle, all become partakers in liberation alone.