It's not that it ripples outwards as successively larger contexts that encircle, with each tick of self-awareness, the momentary event of consciousness endowing it with successively broader meanings, placing it in an ever larger onion-layered cosmos, like those addresses that children like to inscribe, my room, my house, my street my city, ... planet, solar system, galaxy etc., no, it goes the other way around, as if at every moment you have contracted through ring after ring to this sparkling immediacy, but all the larger frames are latent, are absorbed into the oddly complacent sense that whatever is happening you know where you are, that the positioning is intact. This is all a sort of fiction, it is stable enough, but can be disrupted leaving you frighteningly disoriented. Because all there is in reality is the outermost limit of frames, that which has no frame, no context, no position, no reference, no other to endow it with objectivity. That is what you are, unorientable, and somehow the same 'I' outside the picture as in it.