There is this and only this and you cannot step out of it but you imagine something like stepping out when you call it experience and ask whose it is. There is no you on whom experience has descended and no outside for this to be the inside of, but someone calls himself 'I' and wonders how all this came to be, to be so familiar, to be his life, his adventure, his attempt to catch hold of the phenomenon in the act or of the the act in the phenomenon. What is consciousness but the ineradicable illusion that there a point outside? Or say that it is the utter indifference to such an illusion. It makes no difference, you sit breathing and thinking and here and now is just this body and the afternoon light slowly moving on the wall.