Various twists and turns of experience can be brought about by sustained inwardness; going into the 'I', the subjective pole, following the cue of a fullness of realisation that is implied by the variations that show up with the climate of a day, any day. None of these can change the basis of meaning in which knowing is known, understanding understood. Whether it's inward or outward hardly matters. There are some sketches, an idea of the thing, then a space is cleared and it starts to be built up, out of appearances and givens, expected and unexpected. The frame bends and distorts to fit the picture, the elements change to fit the frame, supporting or opposing each other, or element and frame change places, or double up, repeat, reverse, diverge, resolve. It is like music. It starts say from plucking a string, banging on a shell, or blowing through a hole; and you might exhaust yourself trying this in as many different ways as you can and it's still just plucking a string and banging on a shell and blowing through a hole. But then someone discovers music and opens a world of infinite complexity, and you fall into it, fascinated. It keeps getting better and better, Bach and Mozart and Brahms, none of which have anything more to do with plucking, banging, blowing, but with another reality, more real, very nearly absolute, or momentarily absolute, but in a way you can't quite know, but are on the verge of knowing. So the questioning keeps pushing further into the verge, refining the intricacy, swallowing more of the world into it, until the heavens open and there you find nothing but plucking, banging, blowing and the sound of the wind in the trees.