It is strange that because it is elusive, because it is not an object in the world, that consciousness is taken to have a rather ghost-like quality. It is pictures, or like a movie that runs somewhere in the skull, a dream, an entertainment. Certainly, the appearances it is made up of are not to be trusted, they are subjective in the sense in which that term might be meant in science or statistics, merely subjective, partial and distorted perspectives. The most they can do is hint at truth, but lacking corroboration that is all they can do. Consciousness, which is the locus, the hearth, of all these appearances is somehow taken to be itself an appearance, and to exist on the same ontological level. This is an error which deserves to be corrected, since there can be nothing more real, more of an event in whatever the bedrock of reality is, than consciousness as pure event, happening here and now and in every here and now. Reality is finally felt reality, it is an experience, rare enough admittedly, of the absoluteness of this event. Usually it is some sort of content, something starkly life-threatening that brings this home. Perhaps it only occurs in this way a few times in a life, fighting for breath say, and at the edge of the abyss. Then it is evident that this is of the measure of anything that you take to be reality, of the entire world, that the cosmos only is in so far as it is for consciousness. You recognise this, but immediately consciousness goes back to work, absorbing the recognition as a content, placing in your map of life, weaving it into the dream that is life as you've come to understand it, including the dream of corroboration. Every concept is sculpted in this mind-stuff, and every concept fails to capture what it aims at, but only because the stuff itself is real. You only fall into the unreal because the falling itself is real.