The world is but a show, glittering and empty. It is, and yet is not. It is there as long as I want to see it and take part in it.
When I cease caring, it dissolves. It has no cause and serves no purpose. It just happens when we are absentminded.
It appears exactly as it looks, but there is no depth in it, nor meaning. Only the onlooker is real. Call him Self or Atma.
To the Self the world is but a colorful show, which he enjoys as long as it lasts and forgets when it is over.
Whatever happens on the stage makes him shudder in terror or roll with laughter, yet all the time he is aware that it is but a show.
Without desire or fear he enjoys it, as it happens.