It is just because experience is flat that it unfolds in endless depth. If it were not, if depth was 'real' then there would be an exhaustion of the degrees of freedom, you'd come up against a failure of resolution, a mismatch between the the thing as it is and the mental mechanism that seeks to model it. Such points of irreducible density and brute otherness are the stuff of fantasy, but as such they always reveal an unsuspected opening. It just keeps going on. Like a fractal in some way, but since the seen is only the seer just beyond itself, it is never caught out repeating itself exactly, although at some point it is pervaded by a strange déjà vu.

It's very funny really. You are a process full of interesting turnings and entirely devoid of the depth suggested by the idea of self-reflection. It is a weird kind of illusion, a refraction really that installs a virtual centre to the presentification, and the thoughts revolve on themselves and in them the idea reigns that it turns on this intended and intending centre, and so the meanings taken up with rays that seem to splay out, fantastically interdependent webs of meaning and intention, but really all quite flat. And when it turns it takes the whole weird structure with it. That's the only way it could get to be so rich it seems, if it were really how it thinks it is it would deflate in a matter of minutes.

Thinking, feeling and willing, or logos, pathos and mythos, dimensions of experience but offering no help in describing something like this incompleteness, this pure mood which is yet not a mood but a sort of empty willing, a wanting without an object, a sort of unachievable intimacy, a reaching towards hidden eyes. A pure mute animal feeling, a dog's nameless sadness, dark and inward, the opening of curtain after curtain behind the screen or stage of images in a night world, a path that circles beneath velvet black trees. It is a familiarity, a returning, without external reference point, not happening to you, but you sinking into yourself, into the brimming phosphorescent heart contained in a  blue dusk no bigger than a room or a bed and a sea breeze, drawing at the warmth of skin and solitude. How often, what they call longing, without an answer, you know that doesn't change, is never assuaged, the being here one of the pillars of sense, even after it vanishes under some tangle of intents or is put sleep and fed like ghost meat desireless to hungry dreams.

Nothing is like anything else, nothing refers to anything else - so the connectivities through which experience seems to be intelligible never reach beyond the thoughts in which they are contained, and all intelligibility is illusory. What proof does it have, could it ever have, but more of the same? It is good enough at this game to keep you fooled, and why shouldn't it be, since that is what it is for, its delight. And through it you imagine that there is such a thing as experience, and you having it. The thing in itself is not an inaccessible beyond, as implied by thought's belief in itself, but is right up here, closer than the nose on your face, absolutely blatant, a This louder than a thunderclap that scatters the murmurations of thought with its time and space, so many ghostly chattering birds dissolving into the empty sky out of which they are born, mere ripples in the void, unlike anything else.

Experience being always individual experience has its own internal lines of force, its native situation or predicament, its tendency towards what would complete it. That expresses the work that is there for it to do and exhausts it as a volition and a reception and a self-understanding - its outward, inward and reflexive vectors. None of these can change or needs to change, it is there so it can perfectly be what it is. The only direction of increased consciousness, if it can be put that way, is that it know itself in place. You do not need to alter or transform your content in any way, to think in a better way about anything, but only to expand the context so that your place as it is in the immediate, should be more fully revealed. This is a way of saying be more aware without any desire to change anything. In so far as desire is there, and it must be there, it belongs inside the experience, is a part of its very perfection. So, it is not at all a matter of eliminating desire, but of realising a neutral desire outside of desire, that everything be just as it is, unmodified.

The story of a soul, the successive stages of understanding and communion that you pass through is made up of contingencies; the various accidents which lead to this or that sense of the whole, to this or that ethic or revelation, are not the contents of a book either already written or being written, they fall into no necessary pattern and have no connection to a substrate that would be your own. What you advance on entering into each formation is not yourself or your destiny but the fulfillment of that very formation whatever it happens to be. If you discover that your ethic is one of compassion, say, rather than justice, this is to the purpose of compassion as a universal attribute of spirit, and your role is merely to help it along by making the irreducible contribution of one more thread of individual consciousness, a small and necessarily incomplete addition, depending on the precise mode in which you embody it. You might as well be perfectly detached and indifferent, aware of only playing a part, except that whether you are so or not is integral to the particular mode in which you enter on it. And what follows after could be anything at all. You are building the completed edifice of spirit but it is not your spirit, and not you as spirit. What you are is outside even this. You receive nothing but only give, and what you give is nothing of yours, only essence, only the essential, only what completes contingency in necessity, a difference without a difference.

Whatever object your attention falls upon is by that happening known not to be you, you, the one who is aware. Anything in the world that you can encounter directly falls under this immediate negation. But it is also true that whatever you do you are aware of doing it. This reflection, or ability to be reflected, of all events that take their origin from you is native to consciousness, is an immediate concomitant of any purposive action, no matter how subtle or almost involuntary. Just as with attention it falls under the same internal pattern as the distinction of the seer from the seen, now say, the doer and the doing. But what is this intrinsic reflection, this unity which can be expressed as if it amounts to being always able to say 'I do' (and not merely 'I think') without modifying the associated content? It is known or recognised almost in the very instant, but as if from just before. It reaches back before anything like an idea or image, it is a doubling of self-presence, and is the reason why being is sometimes referred to as 'pure act' - pure because precedes any specification of an action. A stationary movement within itself, but when you graze it ever so lightly it emits a bell-clear resonance.