SavingSocrates
Alurayne
Hello. I'm Alurayne, and, as I'm sure you all can tell, I am new to this forum.
First of all, I am only 18, but I hope none of you shall discredit what I am to say, or pass my elaborate speech off as some form of grandstanding--if anything, it is just as much an anomaly to me as it may be to you.
I know that many stories of Past-Live experiences end in therapy, or some form of healing, but I want it to be known that my experiences did not drive me here for aid, just a haven where my story could be told, and hopefully, understood. It will ease a great burden from my shoulders just to tell it, even if none listen. I warn you, since this story wasn't caught in my early years, it does run on a while, and I advise you to make sure you have time to finish it all, once you have begun.
It begins when I was in 3rd or 4th grade--it seems like such a time ago. While the other children spent their time outdoors, on the playground, I spent mine in our school library: I had an insatiable hunger to read. It came as a shock to my teachers that, when tested, I was comparable to a College-or-Higher reading level, while barely having reached the age that I was. I did not attempt to skip any grades, nor was I offered--I simply progressed through my years, doing the sometimes-too-easy work, all the while feeding my need for higher learning. It was not simply the level itself that began to amaze me, but the content. I searched for pieces by Victor Hugo, Alexander Dumas, and other such classic authors, while my peers read more comical and lighthearted works, meant for children.
I was drawn to informational books on inventions and architecture. I remember sitting in our comfy chairs, tracing the sketch of the Coliseum with my fingertip, pondering over the idea of the first Lever, the fulcrum, axis, and other such minor concepts that made the world around me run. I repeatedly checked out a book on Chemistry, because I was fascinated with the look of powdered sulfur, of crushed alum, and other such minerals and elements. What seemed to hit me the hardest was the way that I viewed these things as monumental, although I had been born into a world that was fast approaching the year 2000. Things such as the basic elements, electrical conduits, and televisions, was nothing too new, but I treated them like a man looking upon the first lightbulb--as if I had never seen them before.
Soon enough, I picked up my first copy of Plato's Dialogues from my public library. Too this day, I do not know why I wandered into the dusty back-section of the library, the sections reserved for the official-looking adults. I do not know why I moved down to the very bottom shelf, one sagging under the weight of the old-looking, oddly bound books there. I picked up the Dialogues, and that day, I read the Apology for the first time. I still remember that I cried as I read it, and I did not know why. Oddly enough, I understood the concepts covered within: The idea of the lack of wise men, the misunderstood concept of death, and how it should not be feared. I felt a connection to the idea of the wise man admitting he knows nothing, the ideas of morality, and the evils of ego. I understood the wickedness of Socrates being put to death, merely for living as he dreamed to live. I understood philosophy. And it only went on from there. I found Aristotle, Cicero, Marcus Aurelius, Plutarch, Plato, Virgil and Ovid, Lucretius. Later, I even searched for modern philosophers', such as Camus, Rand, Descartes. I had found an uncanny ally in philosophy, something that my era--certainly my age group--had all but abandoned. I felt like a philosopher.
First of all, I am only 18, but I hope none of you shall discredit what I am to say, or pass my elaborate speech off as some form of grandstanding--if anything, it is just as much an anomaly to me as it may be to you.
I know that many stories of Past-Live experiences end in therapy, or some form of healing, but I want it to be known that my experiences did not drive me here for aid, just a haven where my story could be told, and hopefully, understood. It will ease a great burden from my shoulders just to tell it, even if none listen. I warn you, since this story wasn't caught in my early years, it does run on a while, and I advise you to make sure you have time to finish it all, once you have begun.
It begins when I was in 3rd or 4th grade--it seems like such a time ago. While the other children spent their time outdoors, on the playground, I spent mine in our school library: I had an insatiable hunger to read. It came as a shock to my teachers that, when tested, I was comparable to a College-or-Higher reading level, while barely having reached the age that I was. I did not attempt to skip any grades, nor was I offered--I simply progressed through my years, doing the sometimes-too-easy work, all the while feeding my need for higher learning. It was not simply the level itself that began to amaze me, but the content. I searched for pieces by Victor Hugo, Alexander Dumas, and other such classic authors, while my peers read more comical and lighthearted works, meant for children.
I was drawn to informational books on inventions and architecture. I remember sitting in our comfy chairs, tracing the sketch of the Coliseum with my fingertip, pondering over the idea of the first Lever, the fulcrum, axis, and other such minor concepts that made the world around me run. I repeatedly checked out a book on Chemistry, because I was fascinated with the look of powdered sulfur, of crushed alum, and other such minerals and elements. What seemed to hit me the hardest was the way that I viewed these things as monumental, although I had been born into a world that was fast approaching the year 2000. Things such as the basic elements, electrical conduits, and televisions, was nothing too new, but I treated them like a man looking upon the first lightbulb--as if I had never seen them before.
Soon enough, I picked up my first copy of Plato's Dialogues from my public library. Too this day, I do not know why I wandered into the dusty back-section of the library, the sections reserved for the official-looking adults. I do not know why I moved down to the very bottom shelf, one sagging under the weight of the old-looking, oddly bound books there. I picked up the Dialogues, and that day, I read the Apology for the first time. I still remember that I cried as I read it, and I did not know why. Oddly enough, I understood the concepts covered within: The idea of the lack of wise men, the misunderstood concept of death, and how it should not be feared. I felt a connection to the idea of the wise man admitting he knows nothing, the ideas of morality, and the evils of ego. I understood the wickedness of Socrates being put to death, merely for living as he dreamed to live. I understood philosophy. And it only went on from there. I found Aristotle, Cicero, Marcus Aurelius, Plutarch, Plato, Virgil and Ovid, Lucretius. Later, I even searched for modern philosophers', such as Camus, Rand, Descartes. I had found an uncanny ally in philosophy, something that my era--certainly my age group--had all but abandoned. I felt like a philosopher.
