Most of the detritus that passes through your mind is not yours but is given to you by this time and this place in the ongoing unfolding of the culture to which you belong. What matters is that you embody it, and become in your limited way responsible for it. It requisitions your attention and your power to seemingly struggle against it, and all of this knowing energy being applied to push or to pull enriches it. The only part that is yours is the slow ebbing and flowing of a questioning that operates against the grain. It is in some way like the old gnostic sense of not belonging in this world, or a haunting nostalgia for something not remembered, only it makes no drama out of being a stranger. Rather it is about being perfectly at home in a strange land. Or again it is like rising up on your hands and knees and trying to shake off an intoxication. The smallest amount of leverage to do this is invaluable, and so much so that it has become a commodity in the very world from which it promises escape.