Sometimes I don't want to know what things mean. I actively avoid figuring out what language a word is from, preferring the interpretation my own mind provides. With so many cognates and borrowings floating around, it's often right, but the wrong guesses please me more because they seem to dig into the space where my mind gets all of its ideas, the in-betweens.
I love the word interstitial, and was going to use it here, but then remembered I've already used it a few times and became self-conscious. Someone made fun of me last night for commenting on my own repetition of the word pure four or five times in one evening, but we're all subject to priming, internal and external.
Where does the environment end and the individual begin?