You think of consciousness as a cloudy etheric fluid full of colours and words, sensations, frissons, pleasures and pains, signifiers signifying and other such stuff all knotted together - but all such notions being themselves only contents of this same consciousness have no credibility as a description of anything of the sort. Rather, all of that presencing is only an interface, an accessibility for solving problems. What rightfully should be called consciousness is this adamantine element behind it, roughly what you call being, and delightfully untouchable by any of the impurities and reflexes, the genetic wrinkles that make the appearances such an adventure.