In a gentle, luminous voice, the sage spoke of the highest pursuit: “In that which is beginningless, changeless, and supremely pure, strive with all your strength, O seeker, to bring to an end the play of imagination. All phenomena, O sinless one, are strung together on the subtle thread of imagination. When that thread is snapped, I do not know where the waves of phenomena vanish—like ripples ceasing when the wind is stilled. Everything—what you call unreal, real, or both—arises only out of imagination. Since both the real and the unreal spring from imagination, what truth can ultimately be said to exist here? Whatever you imagine, just so does it become, in an instant. Therefore, O knower of truth, never give rise to imagination at all. Let your mind be free from constructs, and simply act as situations arise. For when mental constructs dissolve, consciousness turns back to its own pure nature, beyond all objects and forms. By rising up as unreality, that which is itself unreal spreads out as this world—a world full of sorrow, futility, and likeness to oneself. O sinless one, why would anyone seek out that which brings great sorrow? The wise, seeing clearly, seek only what is free from sorrow, never its opposite. Having attained the highest reality, cast aside forcefully the net of conceptualization. Realize the nondual state, whose happiness is all-pervading, with a mind as peaceful as in deep sleep. Hearing these words, the disciple asked, ‘Father, what is this mental construct like? How does it arise, O Lord? How does it grow, and how does it come to an end?’ The sage replied, ‘The inclination of consciousness toward objects, within the infinite reality of the Self—which is pure existence—is known as the first sprout of mental construct. When this sprout gains even a slight sense of existence, it grows dense; the mind, filling the space, becomes heavy and inert, like a cloud. When consciousness contemplates an object as if it were separate from itself, it becomes a mental construct, just as a seed becomes a sprout. Imagination is the act of imagining itself; it arises spontaneously, quickly grows by its own force, and leads only to suffering, not to happiness. You are, in truth, nothing but a mere thought, just as the ocean is nothing but water. Apart from imagination, there is truly no transmigration for you. By a chance conjunction, you have come into being, truly in vain; like the wavering of a mirage, you grow in unreality. Just as the belief in gold may arise on seeing a yellow fruit swallowed by someone, so too, an unreal thought appears within you, on its own. You are born from unreality and grow in unreality; when true knowledge arises, being unreal, you dissolve. You think, ‘This is me, these are my experiences, filled with pleasure and pain’—thinking thus in vain, you are tormented within. Truly, you were never born, nor do you exist—how could there be birth from what is not? In vain, you are deluded, subject to imagination by your own nature. Do not imagine imagination, do not fixate on any state. By this very understanding, you become what is to be, for the sake of what is to be. Your effort to destroy imagination does not go very far; by mere absence of mental construction, imagination is dissolved in the heart. There may be some disturbance even in the gentle crushing of a flower, but by mere absence, the flower is easily left alone; not so with the destruction of imagination. The effort of the hand in plucking a flower is suitable for a child; even that helps in this, but not in the eradication of imagination. Yet, imagination, which is to be destroyed, can be effortlessly annihilated, even in half a moment, by the contrary mode of thought. When, by mere cessation of thought, one abides established in one’s own Self, what is impossible to accomplish? For whom would anything be unattainable? With imagination itself, O sage, pierce through imagination by your own mind; abide in your own Self—what is so difficult in this? When imagination is pacified, all this is pacified; O wise one, the incomparable suffering of worldly existence is calmed from its very root. Imagination, mind, individual soul, thought, intellect, and latent tendency—these differ only in name, not in substance, O best of those who know reality. Apart from mental constructs, nothing at all exists anywhere here. Cut off that very root from your heart—why do you grieve over anything else? Just as the sky is empty, so too is the world empty; both arise from unreal imagination, therefore they are the same. All this is indeed unaccomplished, for it is established by what is itself unaccomplished; the world is by imagination, so let imagination rest wherever it may. When there is no reality, what foundation can tendencies have? When tendencies are exhausted, perfection is attained and nothing remains to be gained. Therefore, all this should be regarded as unreal, with indifference; not by imagination—thus one is not tainted by pleasure or pain. Having determined that this is unreal, attachment does not arise here; when attachment ceases, joy and anger, coming and going, do not arise. The mind falsely creates this confusion of pleasure and pain; the living being, as mind, shines forth intensely—the world is a city of the mind. In the world, under the sway of tendencies, the mind’s manifesting power causes the future, present, and past to revolve. The restless soul, impure by its own inclinations, establishes this condition—like a fickle monkey in the forest of the heart, it creates a state resembling itself. Assuming a long form, in an instant they become small; these waves of thought, dull and inert, are unable to grasp anything. When seen even slightly, they grow and burn everything around; like fire from a single blade of grass, thoughts flare up with only a spark. Thoughts, which manifest the world, blaze forth but last only a moment; unstable and inert in nature, they are like flashes of lightning-fire.” Thus, the sage revealed the subtle nature of imagination and mind, and the way to peace beyond their play.