Listen, O Raghava, to the nature of this mysterious force—the mind and its imagination—that shapes the world and all experience. Though inert at its core, this mind appears conscious, animated only by the movement of something else. Even though it does not endure for a moment, it gives the illusion of stability. Like a flame, pure and bright on the outside but dark and sooty within, it flickers only by another’s favor and fades away when left unregarded. In pure light, it seems pale, yet in darkness it shines brilliantly; like a mirage, it appears full and splendid, displaying many hues. It is crooked and perilous, slender and soft, yet prickly and rough—a restless, hungry maiden, ever craving, like the flickering tongue of a serpent. Just as a lamp’s flame quickly dies when its oil is spent, or as vermilion dust loses its brilliance without color, so too does this mind lose its luster when deprived of attachment. Ephemeral and flickering, established in inertness, it appears suddenly and frightens the innocent, like a crooked flash of lightning. Though grasped with effort, it burns and repeatedly dissolves; even when found, it is not sought after, as fragile as lightning itself. Unasked, it arrives; though delightful, it brings misfortune—like an untimely blossom, it is not welcomed for one’s welfare. Forgotten, it brings wandering joy; yet, like the creation of a bad dream, it arises only for harm. By mere appearance, it creates and sustains the three vast worlds for a moment, then devours them. A single moment becomes a series of years through its agency; it was this force that fashioned a twelve-year night for Harishchandra. For those separated from their beloved, or suffering the pain of separation, a single night becomes as long as a year by its influence. For the happy, time appears short; for the unhappy, it seems long. By the influence of this mind alone, time is marked by reversal—what should be brief seems long, and what should be long seems brief. By its mere existence, it appears to be the agent in all activities, just as a lamp seems to be the doer of the acts of illumination, but in truth, it is not so. Just as a painted figure with hips and breasts is not truly a woman, nor does it possess the nature of womanhood, so this form, though it appears, is not truly fit to act as anything. Like a kingdom imagined in the mind—shining with forms but devoid of reality—even if it has hundreds or thousands of branches, in truth it is nothing at all. Like a mirage in the forest, adorned with false display, it deceives only the bewildered deer, not the wise. Like foam that arises and is destroyed, without true separation, it is inert, though appearing restless in form, and when grasped, is found to be nothing. Though not different from consciousness, it certainly appears as something else; like a short thread of a worm, it is inert, yet dependent on the non-inert. Turbid, with an arrogant appearance, dusted by the spread of passion, it is unsteady like a hurricane at the end of an age, encompassing its own world. Like a trail of smoke clinging to the limbs, giving rise to burning and sweat, she moves through the worlds, having absorbed their essence within herself. Her stream is long, fashioned by inertia, like the flow of a raincloud; her cord is firm, made of insubstantial clusters, like a rope woven from blades of grass. She is described only by imagination, like a wave or a lotus; full of many holes like a lotus stem, thick with mud, and composed of inertia. She appears like a flame, intent on growth yet never increasing; sweet at first like the taste of poison, but ultimately exceedingly harsh. She vanishes like a lamp’s flame—I do not know where she goes. Like mist seen from afar, when grasped, she is nothing at all. Spread out like a handful of dust, she is observed as atomic; like a haze in the sky, she is seen without any cause. She arises like the confusion of seeing two moons, or the delusion of a dream; just as the motion of a stationary object is perceived by those on a moving ship, so she appears here. When the mind is afflicted by her, people perceive for a long time the bewildering dream of worldly existence, as if troubled and restless. Even what is pleasing and true is sometimes perceived as real, sometimes as unreal; and what is displeasing and untrue is sometimes perceived as unreal, sometimes as real. When this mind is disturbed by such confusion, various delusions arise and vanish within it, like waves on the surface of the ocean. This imagination, endowed with force, mounts the chariot of objects and swiftly seizes the mind, just as a net captures a bird. Out of compassion, a mother with eyes full of affection and breasts moist with flowing milk is led to the role of a householder, delighting in the joy of her child. Even the moon, though full of nectar and moist, quickly becomes poisonous and destroys the three worlds when it grows too large. Even those who are steady as pillars can be made to act with the confusion of madmen, ghosts, or drunkards; and even the mute may speak, when the mind is thus affected. At twilight and other such times, by the influence of this mind, people see snakes on earthen clods, stones, and walls in the world. Just as a single moon appears as two when seen with double vision, or a distant shore seems near in a dream, so too does the mind create such illusions. A long span becomes as brief as a moment, just as a long night passes quickly; a moment seems like a year, as it does for those separated from their beloved. There is nothing that this restless mind does not name or create; but see, O Raghava, the powerlessness of this mind when it is empty of possessions. Therefore, one should diligently restrain consciousness by consciousness itself; by blocking the flow of awareness, this river of the mind dries up. By what does not exist, by what is frail and utterly empty, by what is called false imagination, this world is wondrously cast into darkness.