Even if there was some insoluble kernel in these moments of consciousness that said they had to belong to someone, that still wouldn't mean it was you that was meant. Take it that there is no such kernel but that it is because of a polyphony of conscious moments which reciprocally articulate, some pointing to the object, others pointing to the pointing, and still others creatively synthesising the points of view, weaving them into a tapestry, a geology. It's not a single arrow pointing but a complex arrangement jury-rigged of multiple "tents" and "ins" which only on being questioned resolve into "intents". It's only when looked at side-on that you seem to be in there somewhere, fully exposed to being, as if existing irreducibly beyond sense, answering to the question that all experience struggles to express in ecstatic finality. It doesn't matter where that "I am" appears in this, as object or subject-object, only that it appears, so that it might as well be the whole show; it is the whole show divinely conjugating the is.