When the mind first begins to take shape, even in the faintest way, it becomes dense and heavy, filling all space and settling into a state of deep inertia, much like a thick, unmoving cloud. As soon as consciousness turns its attention outward, perceiving something as separate from itself, it gives rise to mental constructs—just as a tiny seed, when planted, sprouts and grows. Imagination itself is the act of imagining; it arises on its own, grows rapidly by its own momentum, and ultimately brings only suffering, never true happiness. You, in your essence, are nothing but a thought—just as the vast ocean is nothing but water. Apart from imagination, there is truly no cycle of birth and death for you. Your existence has come about by a mere chance conjunction, and in truth, it is all in vain. Like the shimmering of a mirage, you grow in unreality. Consider how, upon seeing a yellow fruit swallowed by someone, one might mistakenly believe it was gold—so too, an unreal thought arises within you, appearing on its own. You are born from unreality and grow in unreality; when true knowledge dawns, being unreal, you dissolve away. When you think, “This is me, these are my experiences, filled with pleasure and pain,” you are needlessly tormented within by such thoughts. Truly, you were never born, nor do you truly exist—how could birth arise from what is not? In vain, you are caught in delusion, subject to imagination by your own very nature. Therefore, do not imagine imagination itself, nor fixate on any particular state. By understanding this, you become what you are meant to be, for the sake of what is to be. Any effort to destroy imagination does not go very far; simply by ceasing mental construction, imagination dissolves in the heart. Even the gentle crushing of a flower causes some disturbance, but by mere absence, the flower is left undisturbed; not so with the destruction of imagination. The effort of plucking a flower is suitable for a child, and even that can help in some way, but not in uprooting imagination itself. Yet, imagination, which must be destroyed, can be effortlessly annihilated—even in half a moment—by adopting a contrary mode of thought. When, by simply stopping thought, one abides in one’s own true self, what can possibly remain unattainable? For whom would anything be impossible? With imagination itself, O sage, pierce through imagination by the power of your own mind. Abide in your own self—what difficulty is there in this? When imagination is pacified, all else is pacified. The incomparable suffering of worldly existence is calmed at its very root. Imagination, mind, individual soul, thought, intellect, and latent tendencies—these are only different names for the same thing, O best of those who know reality. Apart from these mental constructs, nothing truly exists anywhere. Sever that very root from your heart—why grieve over anything else? Just as the sky is empty, so too is the world empty; both arise from unreal imagination, and thus, they are essentially the same. All of this is, in fact, unaccomplished, for it is founded upon what is itself unaccomplished. The world exists by imagination—so let imagination rest wherever it may. When there is no reality, what foundation can tendencies have? When these 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. Once you have recognized that this is unreal, attachment does not arise. When attachment ceases, neither joy nor anger, neither coming nor going, will trouble you. The mind falsely creates this confusion of pleasure and pain; the living being, as mind, shines forth intensely—this world is but a city constructed by the mind. 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. Thoughts assume a long form, then in an instant become small; these waves of thought, dull and inert, are unable to grasp anything. Even when glimpsed slightly, they grow and burn everything around, like fire kindled from a single blade of grass. Thoughts, which manifest the world, blaze forth but last only a moment; unstable and inert by nature, they are like flashes of lightning-fire. O son, when this is near, it can be swiftly treated—there is no doubt. What is unreal never becomes real anywhere. If a thought is firmly established as real, it becomes difficult to cure; but if it is truly unreal, it is easily remedied. If the impurity of worldly existence were natural, like the blackness of charcoal, then who, O wise one, would even attempt to remove it? But this impurity is like the husk, straw, and chaff in rice; therefore, with effort and human endeavor, it can be destroyed. Even what is naturally attained, my son, becomes artificial for the wise, because its capacity for happiness is interrupted by the impurity of worldly existence. Just as the husk of rice or the tarnish on copper is removed by action, so too is the impurity of a person dispelled. The impurity of the living being, like that of rice, is innate but can certainly be removed—there is no doubt. Therefore, be diligent. This world is produced in vain by false imaginations and notions; gradually, it dissolves. Where is any lasting substance in what is unreal? Worldly existence loses its reality for one who examines its own nature, just as darkness disappears when a lamp is lit, or duality vanishes when unity is perceived. This is not yours, nor are you its owner; abandon this delusion, my son. Do not let your mind dwell on what is unreal, even if it appears real.