How does this mind of ours know if it is actually thinking, novelly and of its own volition, as opposed to simply following the course of its automatic associations? Men are born as blank slates, eagerly downloading all of the data that funnels through their senses, and much if not all of these impressions are mere imitation. One generation feeds off of the culture that precedes it, receiving hand-me-downs of what they should think and how they should think it. Genuine inspiration appears to reside only in the confines of a single soul, and like the wake that comes from a pebble dropped at the center of a lake, the resulting waves affect the population in feebler and weaker doses. Somehow or another men have to realize that no amount of ordinary education, no privileges passed down from posterity, and likely no sudden appearance of genius, will substitute for the inherent need that beseeches each and every one of us to search deep down into the recesses of what we actually are and move in a completely different direction than that of society, culture and tradition.