'What is it that I see?' — An illusion. That's what I once called it. The Cartesian theatre, or the infinite regress of homunculi are merely naive expressions of that illusion, which reaches its ultimate refinement in the transcendental solipsism of Wittgenstein's Tractatus: 'The self of solipsism shrinks to a point of no extension, and there remains the reality co-ordinated with it' (5.64).
Then I underwent an inexplicable conversion. And as a result came to believe that solipsism can be partially true. But I said I wasn't going to talk about that.
Let's talk instead about detachment. If you accept that the self is essentially an agent, not a passive observer (Rorty Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature, Macmurray The Self as Agent) can't you also accept that detatchment is one of the permanent possibilities of action? You choose to remain detached, or choose to become detached, choose to attend to a particular aspect of experience which seems (although that semblance could also be illusory) to have no logical consequences for action. A double turn. Out into the world, then back into the self.
But this takes us no nearer to the thing itself. We're just moving counters around. The other day I said I 'felt increasingly detached'. That's just a remark about personal psychology, it has nothing to do with metaphysics. Except... if it were really possible, through an effort of will, to bring the thing that's at the periphery of my vision to the centre. Or find the right form of words to capture it the way I captured that scene in the photograph...
As if! This has got nothing to do with efforts of will or any such rubbish.
(Oh yeah, and maybe what I really ought to do is stare at the sun until I go blind, or hold my arm up until my elbow permanently seizes, like those Indian fakirs. Shows one thing though: the desperate measures some will take to catch a glimpse of that 'something' whatever it is.)