As long as you think of it as consciousness you are looking awry, it is what you are, it is what is. It doesn't originate in time but wholly out of itself. Your words and ideas are empty in themselves, but that they are possible touches something real. It is meaning that has to be rotated, or rather held from rotation, taken only inwardly, without words but what makes words possible. And this not abstract but more concrete, this here and now, than anything. The unnameable knowingness or meaningness against which all knowing and meaning breaks like waves.