III.But:
a. The scientist who can’t accurately express her work to the world diminishes the value of it. b. The engineer building a bridge who can’t empathize with her staff becomes a metaphor about bridges collapsing. c. The lawyer who ignores history is doomed to repeat it in every courtroom. d. The general, the politician, even the brewer who dis misses philosophy ignores the very answers their fields aim to question. e. The writer who relies on lists exposes his inherent laziness.
If you doubt me, if you cringe at my bleeding heart ideology, consider the moments in your life when your message was misconstrued. Feel that frustration again. Feel how utterly robbed of a sense of self and place you were. Where could you possibly belong in a society so willing to ignore you and your deeper truths? “Nobody understands me!” we’ve all cried into our pillows. “Try again,” our pillows whispered back. “Try better.” I wish our pillows spoke louder. They are all as wise as bird metaphors. They understand the Humanities are the bridge between us and the natural world we aim to discover; standing in the middle, that place one might jump from, we find ourselves learning about those bits we can’t quite quantify yet. Maybe we’ll be able to someday. Maybe then, art will die. Or maybe it will rise again like a Phoenix of the New Questions Left Unanswered. I really don’t know. I’m just a regular bird. I do know that my name is Jeff and, at least for now, I am a mediocre writer. But, I aspire to be better. It’s in the aspiration that I embrace my humanity. And it’s in a conclusion where a smart writer breaks free from his tired, self-serving gimmick and avoids being overly sentimental and repetitive: IV.In powerful, illuminating conclusion: a. We are all kind and empathetic bird metaphors. b. We are all starring in documentaries making fun of us. c. We are all manila envelopes addressed to everyone. d. We are all wise pillows unafraid to speak up. e. We can all be silly and concise, casual and formal, f. And we can all embrace the loneliness and monotony a truly authentic moment entails, g. Because magic is often buried in unexpected places, h. And it’s the digging that matters most. i. And maybe this is the sentence, j. The one where I communicate something so precisely, so brilliantly and beautifully, so filled with flappy metaphors of perfect pitch, that you, kind reader, sincerely understand my message, and we both rise from the ashes together and fly to Humanities Heaven, where Plato shows us around the lobby, and Tennyson takes our dinner reservations, and the pool is never too chlorinated. k. If not, try this one.
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