We put everything into a form to make sense of it. Our thoughts are a kind of form setting. Our emotions express consciousness but are not of it. We are living in a kind of illusory existence, of this world, but not of it. Apart but distinctly enmeshed.
In the brief moments of time when we do not focus too much on what we experience, we are that experience. We have not vanished. We have not disappeared or dissolved the ego. I think that what we have done is just released our selves, or let go, into what we already are. All that we ever will be.
We go on this journey looking for experience, and gathering it, and then reflecting on it, feeling that the swell of experience is the consciousness that is everything. It is not. Think of it as it is the oil stains on the water.
A reflection, a dim twisting of perception that makes us think, like art makes us think, that we have gained some glimpse of reality.