I'm cold Lampin' -- Glimmer on the lamp

I keep honing down to the light source at the end of the proverbial tunnel. Disregarding all reflections that tend to distract or worse like Dostoevskii, himself or his characters, find themselves at the bottom of a well (figuratively) more likely to grant the source of light, but losing expectation of ever joining it. If consciousness is a gem in a field of gems, say, at any one moment the sun illuminates them all with an equal refractory. But light is what sets off his mystical theophany. Couldn't this be as if rather than the sun the outward fact is just a flashlight's light and the refraction is begun by encumbering one gem, & therefore has limited affect on the rest? I'm exposed, posturing towards hope, something creeps up on me--a poison headache, or more solvent really than that, but I feel alright: like a bridge it's the physicality of knowing, corporeal, because the dot of angst is enough for me to pursue the heart of balancing you & what delivers me. In his books the protagonist may say at some point, "Now you know everything!" If we were to assume there is nothing outside of the known, we are in fact the story unfolding & his/her companion to whom the statement is made really is the model for expectation, & yet we lounge by the river of sight thru the eyes of the one divulged.