Διά Analysis: Being-Aware

Phenomenologically, something paradoxical shows itself in this text: awareness itself does not show itself. It is not something that appears. It is that within which appearing takes place. The text says: “Awareness is not what appears, but that within which appearing is possible.”

This distinction is phenomenologically fundamental. When you look around, what do you find? Objects, colors, forms, space. When you look inward, what do you find? Thoughts, feelings, sensations. But do you find awareness? No. You only find contents of awareness. Awareness itself is not among those contents.

The text describes awareness as an “inescapable frame.” A frame is what makes a picture possible, but does not itself appear in the picture. You cannot remove the frame to look “behind” it, because whatever you see “behind” would still be within the frame. Similarly with awareness: you cannot step out of awareness to observe it from the outside, because every attempt to observe it already takes place within awareness.

The text insists: “Awareness is not something that would first have to be reached. It is already with itself. Already knowing of experiencing. Already not outside.” Phenomenologically, this means: awareness is self-given. It is not something you could acquire, develop, or attain. Every experience is already conscious experience — not in the sense of reflective thought, but in the sense of: given for someone, appearing to someone.

This is not a trivial claim. It contradicts the widespread assumption that one can “become more aware” in the sense of: having more awareness. The text says: that is a categorical error. What varies is not awareness, but contents (what is experienced), modes (how it is experienced), and attention (what is focused on). Awareness itself — the condition that anything is experienced at all — does not vary.

The text offers a list: “What can meaningfully be distinguished are not levels of awareness itself, but: contents of experiencing, modes of experiencing, degrees of attention.” This is phenomenologically precise:

• Contents: thoughts, feelings, perceptions, sensations — what is experienced.
• Modes: clarity, confusion, focus, diffusion, calm, restlessness — how it is experienced.
• Attention: direction, breadth, intensity, stability — what is focused on, and how strongly.

All these dimensions are variable, describable, trainable. But they are not awareness. They are in awareness. The text says: “Awareness itself cannot be graded without missing it.” This is a warning against reification: once awareness is treated as something with steps, levels, or degrees, it has already been turned into an object — and thereby missed.

The text also makes a radical statement about the ontological position of awareness: “Everything exists — except awareness. That means: everything that exists appears. Awareness is not what appears, but that within which appearing is possible.”

Phenomenologically, this means: awareness does not belong to the inventory of what occurs. It is not one thing among other things, not one property among other properties. It is the condition under which things and properties can occur at all. This condition is necessary (without it nothing could appear), but not existent in the usual sense (it does not itself appear).

The text sharpens it further: “It is not a something, but that without which no something could appear.” The formulation is slightly rough in English, but phenomenologically exact: awareness is not a something (no object, no thing), but a condition — that without which no “something” could appear.

Phenomenologically, this can be understood as a transcendental structure: awareness is not empirical (not findable within experience), but transcendental (a condition of the possibility of experience). It is the “within which,” the “for whom,” the “field” — but never itself a content of that field.

Psychologically, the text pushes against a widespread misunderstanding in self-development, mindfulness, and spiritual contexts: the confusion of awareness with states. Many people speak of “higher awareness,” “expanded awareness,” “levels of consciousness” — and mean states such as clarity, calm, spaciousness, presence, absorption.

The text diagnoses this as a categorical error: what is called a “level of awareness” is not awareness, but a mode or content of experiencing. Clarity is a mode (how something is experienced). Calm is a state (what is experienced). Presence is a quality of attention (direction, stability).

This confusion has psychological consequences. If one believes awareness can be developed, expanded, or deepened, a developmental logic arises: I am on level X, I should be on level Y. This produces chronic dissatisfaction, spiritual performance pressure, and the illusion of an ontological deficit: “Something is wrong with my awareness.”

The text says: “The talk of ‘levels of awareness’ is misleading. It sounds like: levels of what is always already there. And that is logically unpleasant.” Psychologically, this can be liberating: if awareness cannot be developed, it also cannot be deficient. It is always complete, because it is not something you could have more or less of.

The relief lies in the clear separation: “Relieving is the clear distinction between: what is experienced (thoughts, feelings, clarity, confusion) and that within which this is experienced.” This is a form of metacognitive decoupling: what I experience does not define who I am. Confusion, constriction, lack of clarity — all of that are states that come and go, but they do not touch the condition under which they appear.

Psychologically, this corresponds to approaches such as:

• ACT (Acceptance and Commitment Therapy): the distinction between “self-as-content” (I as thoughts, feelings, story) and “self-as-context” (I as the space in which thoughts, feelings, story appear).
• Metacognitive Therapy: the capacity to see mental events as mental events, not as facts or identity.
• Mindfulness-Based Cognitive Therapy (MBCT): “Thoughts are not facts” — thoughts are events in the field of experience, not truths about the self.

The text also says: “Experiencing may vary without touching the value or status of the subject.” Psychologically this is central. Many people experience their states as judgments about the self: if I am confused, I am deficient. If I am clear, I am good. The text interrupts this equation.

The psychological dynamic behind “levels of consciousness” is often narcissistic regulation (not meant pathologically): the desire for distinction, superiority, proof that one is “further along.” “Levels of awareness” function as a new currency: not money, not power, but depth, clarity, presence. The text removes the value from that currency: there are no levels.

Therapeutically, the text can serve several functions:

• Relief from spiritual perfectionism: you do not have to become “higher,” “clearer,” “more aware.”
• Normalization of state fluctuations: that clarity, calm, focus vary is normal — it does not mean you have “fallen back.”
• Deconstruction of implicit hierarchies: in spiritual communities subtle hierarchies often arise (“Who is further?”). The text shows: the question is meaningless.

Psychologically important is also the statement about freedom: “Freedom is not lost, because it was never part of the inventory.” Many people feel they have lost their freedom — through conditioning, trauma, habits. The text says: freedom is not a property that one can have or lose. It is the condition under which action is possible at all. One can feel unfree, but one is never ontologically unfree, because freedom does not belong to the inventory of properties.

This is not a denial of suffering or limitation. It is a conceptual clarification: freedom is not something you acquire or lose. It is structurally given — as the openness within which acting, deciding, choosing occur.

Symbolically, the text performs a radical emptying. It withdraws from awareness all imagery, all metaphors, all archetypal charge. Awareness is not light (one of the oldest metaphors for consciousness across cultures). It is not space, not field, not ocean, not sky. Nor is it the witness as a figure — not a person who watches.

Archetypally, this is a counter-movement to almost all spiritual traditions. In most mysticisms, awareness is symbolically elevated:

• In Hindu traditions: Brahman as cosmic consciousness, the light of Atman, the ocean of being.
• In Buddhist traditions: the clear light of mind (rigpa), Buddha-nature, pure emptiness birthing all.
• In Christianity: God as light, the divine presence shining “in the darkness.”
• In Sufism: the light of God (Nur), the eye through which God sees Godself.
• In New Age: universal consciousness, higher self, source.

The text refuses all these images. It says: “No light, no space, no field, no witness as figure.” Why? Because every image makes awareness into an object. Light is something you can see. Space is something you can measure. A witness is someone who is there. But awareness is not something that can be seen, measured, localized.

Archetypally, this is the motif of the via negativa — negative theology, which can only say what God is not, never what God is. Meister Eckhart: “God is a nothing and a nobody.” Pseudo-Dionysius: “God is neither light nor darkness, neither being nor non-being.” The text transfers this method to awareness.

Symbolically, this is also a de-romanticization of non-duality. Non-duality is often symbolized as cosmic unity, oceanic fusion, return to the source. The text says: “Non-duality is not a goal, but natural appearing.” This is not a downgrade, but a precision: non-duality is not something special, lofty, mystical, but the ordinary structure of appearing. It is “non-dual” not as a mystical fusion, but as a categorical distinction: awareness is not a thing that would be separate from other things.

The recurring symbolic motif is the negation of inventory: “Awareness does not belong to the world of things. It is that which never itself becomes an object.” Symbolically: awareness is not in the catalogue, not on the list, not part of the stock. It is what enables the catalogue, but does not appear in it.

In mythological language one could say: awareness is not a god among gods, not a principle among principles, not a primordial ground from which everything springs. It is structurally different from everything that occurs. It is the condition under which gods, principles, primordial grounds can even be thought.

The text calls this “transcendental minimalism.” This is itself a symbolic phrase: transcendental (concerning the conditions of experience) plus minimalism (only the minimum, no more). Symbolically, it is an anti-mystical gesture: no elevation, no cosmic significance — only the minimal condition for anything to be.

In this symbolic emptiness there is no negation, but a precise boundary. The text draws a line: on this side — everything that occurs. On the other side — not “nothing,” but the condition. The boundary is not mystical, but logical. Not holy, but necessary.

Archetypally, one could say: the text disenchants awareness, not to devalue it, but to expose it. Awareness needs no images, symbols, myths to be what it is. It is simply: that without which nothing would be.

Linguistically, the text is marked by extreme rigor. The language is minimalist, argumentative, almost mathematical. There are no metaphors (except the explicit rejection of metaphors), no poetic digressions, no emotional appeals. The text works like a linguistic scalpel: precise cuts, clear distinctions, no ornament.

The poetic effect does not arise through imagery, but through logical sharpening. The sentences are short, often fragmentary, like axioms: “Already with itself. Already knowing of experiencing. Already not outside.” This fragmentation creates rhythm and insistence. Each sentence is an assertion, a determination, a postulate.

Central is the work with negation. The text is a series of “not’s”: “Awareness is not something that would first have to be reached.” “Awareness itself cannot be graded.” “Awareness is subjective, but not objectifiable.” “It does not belong to the things that occur.” “Awareness is not part of the world.” “Awareness is not what exists.”

These negations serve categorical purification. Each negation removes a false picture. The text does not say what awareness is, but systematically what it is not. This is the method of the via negativa, linguistically implemented: meaning arises through exclusion, not through attribution.

Especially striking is the sentence: “Everything exists — except awareness.” Grammatically paradoxical, but logically precise. It says: everything that exists, everything that occurs, everything that is — belongs to the domain of “there is.” Awareness does not. Not because it does not exist, but because it does not belong to the category of “there is.” It is the condition under which “there is” is possible at all.

The text states it more precisely: “Awareness is not what appears, but that within which appearing is possible.” Linguistically, this is a shift from what to within which — from substance to condition, from object to frame, from thing to structure. Subtle in language, decisive in philosophy.

Sharpened again: “It is not a something, but that without which no something could appear.” This formulation has a deliberate roughness, and precisely thereby it works: it produces a stumble where thinking pauses. Not “without that,” but “without which” — emphasizing: awareness is not a definite thing, but a necessity.

The term “transcendental minimalism” is linguistically central. It is a coined expression that binds two traditions: transcendental (Kantian philosophy: conditions of experience) plus minimalism (aesthetic reduction to the essential). The term says: no mystical elevation, only the minimal logical condition.

The text explicitly states: “This is not mysticism. It is transcendental minimalism.” This demarcation matters: it marks distance from spiritual discourses that mythologize, sacralize, inflate awareness. The text says: no. This is philosophy, not mysticism. Logic, not enlightenment.

The repetitions (“Awareness is not…”) are not redundancy but systematic variation. Each repetition adds a new angle, a new boundary, a new precision. The repetition itself creates a meditative quality — not absorption, but logical insistence: understand this for real, not only superficially.

The tone is cool, clear, unpathetic. No emotional appeals, no emphasis, no drama. The text does not speak to feelings, but to insight. It does not say “Know thyself!” (pathos). It says: “Awareness is the condition of experience.” (matter-of-fact).

The final sentences read almost like a mathematical conclusion: “Awareness is not a reality. It is the condition of reality. Undivided, without level.” Three short statements. No embellishment. Only clarity. “Undivided, without level” is the briefest refusal of all level models, hierarchies, developmental logics. Two words: undivided (no split), without level (no steps).

Linguistically, the text is an example of philosophical prose — not lyric, not rhetoric, not poetics in the traditional sense. Its beauty lies in precision, not in imagery. Its effect lies in logic, not in evocation.

Neuropsychologically, the text can be read as a critique of identifying awareness with brain states. In neuroscience, “consciousness” is often equated with: wakefulness (arousal), attention, self-modeling, or neural correlates (NCCs — neural correlates of consciousness).

The text says: all of that is not awareness, but contents or modes: “Attention, wakefulness, clarity or absorption are measurable and variable — awareness itself is not.” Neuropsychologically: what is measured (EEG patterns, fMRI activation, neural synchronization) are correlates of contents of experience, not awareness itself.

This resonates with what is known in consciousness studies as the hard problem of consciousness (David Chalmers, 1995): why is there subjective experience at all? You can describe all functional, neural, cognitive processes — and still have not explained why it feels like something to experience. Why is experience given for someone?

The text does not claim to solve this debate, but it marks a methodological boundary: correlations concern contents and modes, not the condition of their appearing.

Neuropsychologically, this means: you can measure what is experienced (contents: visual percepts, thoughts, emotions), how it is experienced (modes: clarity, focus, absorption), and what attention is directed toward. But you cannot measure that experiencing happens at all — the condition that experiencing is given for someone.

The text stands close to neurophenomenology (Francisco Varela, Evan Thompson) — an approach that tries to integrate neuroscience and phenomenology without reducing one to the other. Varela and Thompson argue: awareness is not objectifiable, because it is the condition of all objectification. You can find neural correlates, but those correlates are not awareness — they are conditions under which certain contents appear.

The text distinguishes clearly:

• Measurable variables: attention (sustained, selective), wakefulness (arousal, vigilance), clarity (signal-to-noise in perception), absorption (flow, immersion). These are functions neurally implemented, variable, trainable.
• Awareness itself: the condition under which these functions are experienced at all. Not measurable, not variable, not trainable — because it is no function, but the condition of functions.

Neuropsychologically one might ask: does that make awareness an epiphenomenon? No. The text does not say awareness is irrelevant. It says: awareness is not something you can measure, because it does not belong to the category of measurable things. It is not one process among other processes, but the condition under which processes happen for someone.

Example: imagine you measure a person’s brain activity with fMRI while they see a red rose. You find activity in the visual cortex, inferotemporal areas (object recognition), limbic resonance, and so on. You can map, quantify, model it. But have you explained why it feels like seeing a red rose? Why “redness” is given for someone?

The text would say: no. What you measured are neural correlates of the content (red, rose, form) and the mode (clarity, attention). But you did not measure awareness — the condition that anything appears for someone.

This is not anti-scientific. It is a conceptual clarification: awareness is not what neuroscience measures. Neuroscience measures correlates of contents and modes — important, valuable, illuminating — but not awareness itself.

The text mentions researchers like Francisco Varela or Evan Thompson, who conceive awareness not as objectifiable, but as phenomenally accessible. Neuropsychologically, this is methodological pluralism: you can investigate consciousness from a third-person perspective (neuroscientific) and describe it from a first-person perspective (phenomenological) — but you should not confuse the two. Third-person: correlates, functions, mechanisms. First-person: experience itself. Both are necessary; neither reduces to the other.

In this sense the text is a plea for epistemic modesty: neuroscience can explain a lot, but it cannot explain why there is someone for whom something appears. That boundary is not a weakness of neuroscience, but a categorical necessity: awareness is not something you could observe from the outside, because it is what makes “outside” possible at all.

Philosophically, the text stands clearly in the tradition of transcendental philosophy in the wake of Immanuel Kant. The central Kantian question is: “What are the conditions of the possibility of experience?” Kant distinguished between empirical (what occurs in experience) and transcendental (what makes experience possible at all).

The text makes precisely this distinction: “Awareness is the condition of the possibility of experience, not an object of it.” This transfers Kant’s method to awareness: awareness is not empirical (not findable within experience), but transcendental (a condition without which experience is impossible).

Kant wrote in the Critique of Pure Reason: “The ‘I think’ must be able to accompany all my representations…” This is the idea of the transcendental I: not an empirical I (with traits), but the formal condition that anything can be represented for a subject.

The text says the same, more directly: “Without I: no perception, no thinking, no feeling, no world. Not as a claim, but as a logical boundary.” This is a transcendental argument: without awareness (as condition) nothing could appear for someone. Not because awareness “creates” everything, but because appearing-for-someone presupposes awareness.

The most provocative sentence is: “Everything exists — except awareness.” Paradoxical, but precise. It means: everything that exists belongs to the category of beings (in Heidegger’s language). Awareness does not belong to the category of beings. Not because it does not exist, but because it is the condition of being, not itself a being.

Philosophically, this can be compared with Heidegger’s distinction between being and beings. Beings are everything that is (things, properties, events). Being is not itself a being, but that by virtue of which beings are. Heidegger called the confusion of being and beings “forgetfulness of being” — the tendency to treat being itself as a being.

The text makes a similar move: awareness is not a being, but the condition under which beings can appear. Confusing awareness with a state, property, or level would then be a form of “forgetfulness of awareness” — treating awareness as something that occurs.

The text also references Husserl’s phenomenology and Heidegger’s “clearing,” yet distances itself from their ontological expansions. Husserl spoke of the “transcendental ego,” a “pure consciousness” remaining after bracketing empirical content. Heidegger spoke of the “clearing” in which beings can appear.

The essay adopts the structure of these thoughts (awareness as condition, openness), but without ontological inflation (awareness is not “being,” not “the Absolute,” not “the clearing of being”). It remains strictly transcendental: awareness is the condition of experience. Period. No further metaphysical claims.

The statement “Freedom is not lost, because it was never part of the inventory” is philosophically decisive. It distinguishes between freedom as a property (something you can have or not have) and freedom as a condition (structurally given).

This recalls Sartre: “Man is condemned to be free.” Freedom is not something you choose, but the condition under which choosing is possible at all. The text similarly says: freedom is not a property you could lose, because it does not belong to the inventory of properties. It is the condition under which acting, deciding, choosing are possible. You can feel unfree (empirically), but you are never ontologically unfree, because freedom is structurally given.

This is not a denial of determination, conditioning, compulsion. It is a conceptual clarification: freedom here is not “free will” as arbitrariness, but existential openness — the structure that action is possible at all. Even a fully determined system would not be “unfree” in this existential sense, so long as it is capable of action — because freedom here does not mean indeterminacy, but the openness of existence.

Finally, the claim about non-duality: “Non-duality is not a goal, but natural appearing.” Philosophically: non-duality is not a state you could reach, but the structure in which appearing always already takes place. It is “non-dual” because awareness is not a thing that could stand separated from other things: categorically different — not a being, but the condition of being.

The text thus exemplifies transcendental minimalism — the minimal transcendental condition, without metaphysical surplus, without ontological speculation, without mystical charge. Only: the logical boundary without which nothing would be possible.

Spiritually, the text is clearly non-dual, but it formulates non-duality in consciously anti-esoteric terms. It avoids the typical spiritual vocabulary: no “awakening,” no “oneness,” no “enlightenment,” no “true self,” no “cosmic consciousness.” Instead: “Non-duality is not a goal, but natural appearing.”

This formulation is spiritually radical. It says: non-duality is not something special one must attain. It is the ordinary structure of appearing. It is always already non-dual because awareness is not a thing that would be separate from other things. The “duality” to be dissolved is not a metaphysical split, but a conceptual confusion.

In traditional non-dual teachings (Advaita Vedanta, Zen, Kashmir Shaivism) one often hears of a path: practice, purification, letting go, breakthrough, awakening. The text refuses this developmental logic. It does not only say “there is no path” (as Krishnamurti did), but more precisely: there is nothing to reach because awareness never lacked.

This corresponds to the direct path in certain Advaita lineages, especially with teachers like Atmananda Krishna Menon or Jean Klein: what is sought is already the seeker. There is nothing to attain, nothing to become, nothing to overcome — only to see that separation was never the case.

The text makes a similar move, but without Vedantic ontology. It does not claim there is an Atman identical with Brahman. It only says: awareness is the condition of experience, not a content of experience. Therefore it cannot be “reached” — it is already there, as that within which reaching takes place.

In Zen, the koan “Show me your original face before your parents were born” points not to a past state, but to what was never born and never dies — what is prior to all contents, identities, stories. The text points to this “original face” without Zen terminology.

The essay also avoids the common non-dual rhetoric of unity. Many teachings say “Everything is One,” “You are the universe,” “Separation is illusion.” The text says none of this. It says: awareness does not belong to the world of things, therefore it is neither separated from things nor “united” with things. It is categorically different.

This is a form of non-duality without monism. Monism claims: there is only one substance (awareness, spirit, energy, God). The text does not claim that. It says: everything exists — except awareness. Awareness is no substance, no unity, no all-one. It is the condition under which substances, multiplicities, things can appear.

Spiritually, the text is also a refusal of hierarchies. It says: “No election, no stages, no hierarchy of the awakened.” This is a radical democratization: nobody is “further,” nobody is “higher,” nobody has “more awareness.” Since awareness is not something that develops, no spiritual hierarchy can be grounded in “levels.”

This resonates with teachers like Jiddu Krishnamurti, who rejected authority, hierarchy, and method. Krishnamurti famously said: “Truth is a pathless land.” No technique, no teaching leads to truth — truth becomes visible when the search stops.

The text says similarly: awareness is always already present. There is nothing to do in order to reach it. Any practice that promises to “raise awareness” already misses awareness, because it treats it as something one could have more or less of.

Spiritually, the text exemplifies radical sobriety. It disenchants non-duality without devaluing it. It says: non-duality is not mystical, not holy, not special. It is simply the structure in which experiencing takes place. As self-evident as gravity — not something to achieve, but something that is already the case.

In this sobriety there is no coldness, but precision. No great promises, no salvation narratives, no cosmic visions are needed. It is enough to see: awareness is the condition under which anything can be. That is not little. That is everything.

Contextually, the text functions as a radical corrective across several overlapping fields: spiritual discourse, mindfulness movements, consciousness research, and philosophical debates on subjectivity.

In spiritual contexts, it intervenes against the widespread talk of “levels of consciousness,” “higher consciousness,” “consciousness development.” These terms are not only common in esoteric circles, but also in established traditions: in Buddhism, one speaks of jhānas (absorption stages), in Vedanta of koshas (sheaths of consciousness), and in integral models (Ken Wilber) of developmental levels.

The text says: all of this confuses contents and modes with awareness itself. What develops are capacities (attention, regulation, metacognition), not awareness. The confusion produces implicit hierarchies: Who is “further”? Who is “more developed”? Who has “higher awareness”? The text removes the ground: there are no levels.

In mindfulness and meditation contexts, the text can have a relieving effect. Many people meditate with the implicit assumption that they must “become more aware.” This creates performance pressure and the possibility of failure: “I’ve been meditating for so long and nothing has changed.” The text says: awareness was never absent, therefore it cannot be “reached.” What is trained is attention, regulation, clarity — all valuable, but categorically different from awareness.

Therapeutically, the text can be stabilizing, because it dissolves the feeling of ontological deficit. Many carry the assumption: “Something is wrong with me. I’m not aware enough, not clear enough, not present enough.” The text says: that assumption is a categorical error. Awareness is not a property you can have more or less of. It is the condition under which properties are experienced at all.

In academic consciousness research (consciousness studies, philosophy of mind, cognitive science), the text marks a methodological boundary: neuroscience can measure correlates of contents, but not awareness itself. This is not anti-science, but epistemological clarity: third-person measurement cannot replace or reduce first-person experiencing.

This resonates with thinkers like Francisco Varela, Evan Thompson, and Thomas Nagel (“What is it like to be a bat?”, 1974). Nagel argued: subjective experience is not reducible to objective description, because it requires a perspective shift that is methodologically unavailable. You can know all physical facts about a bat and still not know what it is like to be a bat.

Pedagogically, the text works as a foundational document for interdisciplinary seminars at the intersection of philosophy, psychology, neuroscience, and contemplative studies. It offers a language precise enough for philosophical analysis, accessible enough for psychological practice, and open enough for spiritual resonance — without becoming dogmatic.

Within Διά — the larger project — this essay marks an epistemic zero-line. Διά stands for the in-between, the passage, the interval. “Being-Aware” shows: you cannot reduce further than this without falling into nonsense. Awareness is the minimal condition without which there would be nothing. You cannot go further without losing the category.

The text therefore functions as a foundation for other Διά pieces: if awareness is the condition, then there can be no levels (→ “Leveling”), then the I cannot be “overcome” (→ “What is the Ego?”), then there is no “arrival” (→ “Non-Duality Without Exit”). Other texts build on this basic clarification.

Socially, the text also intervenes in a broader culture of self-optimization and spiritual consumption. In late-capitalist societies, even awareness becomes a commodity: courses, retreats, books, apps promise “higher consciousness,” “expanded awareness,” “awakening.” The text says: that is a category mistake. Awareness is not something you can buy, develop, or reach.

This is not a critique of practice or teaching, but a conceptual correction: what is trained is useful and important — but it is not “more awareness.” The correction removes the logic of salvation promises from spiritual markets: there is nothing to sell, because there is nothing to attain.

Contextually, the text exemplifies critical clarity: it does not attack people, practices, or traditions, but conceptual confusions. It says: when you speak of “awareness,” you often mean something else. Let’s be precise. That helps everyone.