O Rama, listen closely to the nature of bondage and freedom. Just as, in dim light, a rope can be mistaken for a snake and fear arises from that illusion, so too is the idea of bondage conjured within the vast, clear expanse of consciousness, though in truth, consciousness is never bound. What is imagined is merely another layer of imagination—one fantasy giving rise to another—just as space itself seems different in daylight and at night, though it remains unchanged. If you imagine something as real, effortless, unconditional, and free from confusion, it becomes a source of happiness for you. Consider how, in an empty hut, one might fear a lion lurks within; so also, in the empty body, the fear of bondage arises. But if you look inside that hut, you find no lion; likewise, upon careful examination, the bondage of worldly existence is not found. The idea, "This world exists, and I am this," is but a delusion, like the illusory shadow that children see at twilight. Because of imagination, for living beings, notions of existence and non-existence, good and bad, arise and vanish in an instant, becoming real and unreal again and again. See how a mother, when regarded as a wife and embraced as such, fulfills the duties and brings the joys of a wife; but when a beloved is regarded as a mother and embraced, all passionate feelings dissolve. Thus, the wise observe that objects yield results according to one's attitude and do not attribute a single fixed nature to anything in this world. Whatever the mind intensely contemplates, in whatever manner, that very thing, in that very form, appears for as long as the contemplation lasts. Truly, nothing is absolutely real, nor is anything absolutely unreal; whatever is determined by anyone in any way, that is how it appears to that person. The mind may even imagine an elephant in the sky and chase after it in a forest of clouds, as if it itself were established in the sky. Therefore, O Raghava, know that you yourself are but imagination, composed of all forms. Abandon this play of imagination and rest well, established in your own true self. A jewel, by its inert nature, cannot prevent reflections from appearing within it—but you, O Rama, are not like that. Whatever is reflected in the jewel of your mind, recognize it as unreal, and do not let yourself be colored by it. Or, if you wish, consider that alone as real, undivided from the supreme self, and contemplate yourself by yourself as beginningless and endless. Let the thoughts reflected in your mind, O Raghava, color those whose minds are attached elsewhere, but let them not color you, just as a flawless crystal remains unaffected by the colors entering it. In the same way, let all the desires for the worlds enter your mind openly and be seen for what they are. For one who abandons the seen and seeks the unattained, perceiving the seer and not the seen, the seen is to be discarded. For one awake in the supreme reality, alive and not asleep, the path of worldly existence is like a dense, deluding sleep. When there is utter distaste even for pleasures that seem delightful, one becomes flavorless, without longing or desire. When the mind is worn out and freed from attachment, the self merges with the Absolute, just as accumulated snow melts away under the sun. When the waves of craving subside, like rivers drying up after the heavy clouds depart, the inner agitation comes to rest. When the net of worldly desires is broken, like a bird-cage shattered by a rat and the knots loosened by the power of dispassion, liberation arises. Just as water becomes clear when mixed with the fruit of the kataka nut, so too, by the power of knowledge, one's own nature becomes clear and tranquil. The mind, free from passion, attachment, duality, and dependence, departs from delusion as a bird leaves its cage. With doubts and baseness calmed, with curiosity and confusion gone, the mind shines within, complete like the full moon. Equanimity, born of supreme beauty, arises everywhere like a gentle breeze over the ocean. The desire for worldly existence, dark and confused, fades away like the night at dawn. When the sun of consciousness is seen, the lotus of wisdom blossoms, adorned with virtuous shoots, radiant and pure like the morning sky. Wisdom, captivating the heart and delighting the world, manifests as the wealth of virtue, like the rays of the full moon. What more is there to say? The great mind, knowing what is to be known, neither rises nor sets, like the space within the sky. For one whose nature is understood through inquiry and whose self has arisen, even Brahma, Vishnu, Indra, and Shiva become objects of compassion. Even when thoughts arise outwardly, they do not reach one whose mind is free from ego, just as mirage-water does not reach the deer. These worlds, like waves, come and go all around; but for the knower, birth and death, arising from the self, are gathered up and do not disturb him. Manifestation and dissolution—this alone is the course of saṃsāra, nothing else; seeing both clearly, he delights and is not troubled. Just as space within a pot is neither born nor dies when the pot is adorned or broken, so too, the self in the body is unaffected. When discernment arises, the cold of delusion, born of the weight of false error, is dispelled; in the clouded mind, desire fades like a mirage in the desert. But as long as one has not inquired, "Who am I? What is this?", the tumult of saṃsāra remains like darkness, unbroken and undispersed.