In the Lankavatara Sutra’s Yogācāra framework, consciousness isn’t a single, solid “thing” but a dynamic stream of interwoven layers. Right off the bat, it tosses aside the usual subject-object split, treating mind and world as two sides of the same coin. At its heart lies the alayavijñāna, or “storehouse consciousness,” a vast reservoir where karmic seeds germinate into perceptions, emotions, and even our sense of self. Every experience drops a seed; every thought waters it, so the garden of consciousness grows wild until someone decides to prune.

Beyond the storehouse, seven other consciousnesses shape daily life: the five sensory streams plus the mental consciousness that labels and judges, and the defiled mind (kliṣṭa-manas) that clings to “I” and “mine.” The Sutra says these layers spin illusions, much like a hall of mirrors in a funhouse—only there’s nothing to catch hold of, just reflections of reflections.

True clarity arrives when the storehouse is cleansed, revealing tathāgatagarbha, the buddha-nature shimmering beneath every seed. It’s like clearing fog from a mirror: the mirror itself was always spotless; only the grime hid its brilliance. Modern mindfulness apps riding the wave of ancient wisdom echo this process, helping folks unearth a quieter, more grounded self—proof that these ideas aren’t relics gathering dust.

Today’s debates around AI “consciousness” only underscore how radical the Lankavatara Sutra really was. While engineers wrestle with lines of code, the Sutra points to an ever-flowing, self-transforming mind that transcends hardware and software. In essence, consciousness becomes less about data processing and more about unveiling an already luminous, boundless field, just waiting to be recognized.