Perhaps the conscious is really only like what is 'allowed' to be leaked out of the mind, in order not to be overwhelmed. You, I, we are dreaming all the time--perhaps-- but while we are awake, that door is closed, and we are left standing in the small anteroom of the conscious mind, with its well-known walls decorated with the same paintings and pictures that fade and change, but slowly, so slowly. It's hard while we're awake to let that door open, and to look into that huge mansion of mind. Hard, but not impossible... hell, I'm typing this ad lib-- where's it coming from? Not my little wee conscious that can't come up with metaphors (see, now that I've noticed, the door has been shut). The door is closed now-- I'm tense, but it'll open again, and leak some more, but I'll close it again, for it's not all good that is in the larger part (and it's frightening). Nothing really scary exists there-- how could it? It's me, not some monster (or is it, am I a monster?), no just me, warts and all, smarts and all, dumb-dumb-bum-bum, poopy poo.