To the professor

..whom shall find my script quite unremarkable and perversely distinct from the impressions I made upon him during classes.

I rarely ever do well for timed essays. I read the question and attempt to conceive an answer. But before I can finish this crucial task of planning, I am forced by an ecliptic anxiety to begin writing. The result is a mess of half-developed ideas sprawled across the paper. Whatever brilliance, then, is lost to the unforgiving incoherence. And this is hardly to say that my ideas were brilliant in the first place.

You must also have noticed, as you uncover more of the mess, that I have an incessant tendency to repeat my ideas; only each time using a different metaphor to express them. This happens when I have nothing left to talk about. I lay the first bricks, eager to construct the whole. But I soon reach a point where I can lay no further. The lack of planning deprives me of the essential knowledge. The crest, though conceived fleetingly in the mind, remains conceptually nebulous, and shall never find existence on the paper.

I imagine you expected more from a student of philosophy. Clarity of thought and expression is our supposed forte. But here, you see how I fumble, not only in the simple juxtaposition of ideas, but also in the choice of words. I repeat words very so often, and employ those which expand the demesne of meaning more than they do specify it.

I am a terrible writer in all. It should shame me to call myself even that. Or even to call myself a thinker.


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