but jupiter, please, will you raise your fists?

plato wisely once said that:

Man's soul, in a former state, was winged and soared among the gods; and so it comes to pass, that, in this life, when the soul, by the power of music or poetry, or the sight of beauty, hath her remembrance quickened, forthwith there is a struggling and a pricking pain as of wings trying to come forth,--even as children in teething.

i have always thought that i have lived many past lives. but now i think that i have lived none. i imagine that in that former state i would have carefully observed dewinged humanity; would have watched hearts destroyed, the last lovers' embrace, the lonely despair. i would have seen empires fall, callousness build, and eras end. i would have taken note of what crushes the strong, how the weak exist, and how the wingless forget. i imagine that after many decades i began to fly only at night in attempt to avoid the accusing sunlight that was shed on these embarrassing displays. i am sure i would have dreaded the day when i would be born unto an existence where i would have to partake in these horrors; these tragedies of failure and loss.

perhaps this is why i prefer the company of music, than to the company of others; why i distrust intentions, than easily rest in them; why i would rather sleep away the day, than to venture out in it. perhaps those who have lived here so long have forgotten the lessons they have learned among the gods. perhaps they have experienced too much hurt to dwell upon it in any more length. or perhaps they simply do not wish to remember a time when they had to wrestle with the prospect of this weighty mortality.