You are not a product of your upbringing but rather, a prisoner. Every instinct is deformed by your ancestors. What has become of reason goes the ways of the seasons--repetitive and rediscovered. We mortals, in this age, are champions of everything but ourselves. In fears and regrets we dwell for years, lifetimes, until we break the bonds only to discover the free world is as certain as the chains we once bore. No one is original. There are those among us who, in a moment's time, have discovered more about you than you will ever know. That fated trance is what lures us to the beginning: an instant of complete innocence, reverence, and uncertainty. We shall never feel that again, but alas, we will pursue it with great intent. But what would you do with that righteousness, that impossibly honest experience? You would become what you already are, and not think twice about God or the Devil. We are fragments in a sea of ineffable words.