What we might call the manifold of experience — the movement of our bodies through the world, its reaction to us and ours back onto it in sort of a feedback loop of the possible — is an infinitely supple thing. Reason cannot contain it: it is not a product of the intellect; sense does not encompass it: our five senses are not the end of the story. It might be called a consciousness, but consciousness cannot extend outside the present and so cannot be the correct word: for there are preconscious and subconscious states of which we cannot be aware but all the same prefigure and inform our conscious awareness as well as dead matter which though unthinking all the same works on our possible thought.
The manifold, being so supple, so complex, can only be smashed and smoothed, crushed under the weight of oppressive notions of being or totalizing conceptions of the place of selves in the world. Likewise, narratives that enclose the tangled complexity of the manifold with definite finality, funnel its loops and turns into predestined channels from which an easily grasped sense is extracted, can only disconnect it from us and leave us, having lost touch with it, alienated. And looking for further truths in these lies, turning a blind eye to the scintillating movement of the manifold will get us nowhere.