Math Disguised as Humanities

This morning, we will have a short quiz on Japanese language.
Alright, please clear off your desks.

There are cases where the person writing thinks that if it doesn't get across, it's because the reader lacks reading comprehension.

In other words,
"I am a master of verbalization,"
but they aren't making any effort to communicate. Let's verify if that's true.

[Read the following sentence and answer.]

"We are always praying for something, and before we know it, we might be calling that love."

Question 1: What is love in this context?

Is this prayer? Or is it love?
Welcome to the hell where the meaning changes based on the placement of parentheses.

The question is math disguised as humanities, isn't it?
In your head, you have to enter syntax analysis mode to read it, asking:
"Where is the subject?"
"Is this an adjective? A metaphor? An analogy?"
"Which parts are parallel, and what does this modify?"

Categorization, organization, and reading comprehension.
The moment these three are imposed on the reader, it's no longer a piece of writing, but a puzzle.
It's relying on the reader's patience.

I believe it is the writer's responsibility when a piece of writing makes you want to ask, "So, what were you trying to say?" after you finish reading it.

Abstract sentences without a subject, like the one from earlier,
"We are always praying for something, and before we know it, we might be calling that love."
...sentences like that

→ They are troublesome because they look beautiful and profound even though "who," "what," and "when" are missing.

In reality, the reader is doing the work of finding the placement of parentheses in a mathematical formula, asking, "What does this word modify?"

Love = (Prayer + Realization) ÷ Loneliness? Or is it Prayer = (Love × Unconsciousness)? Wait, which one is it?

Who is "we"?
→ The confusion starts right here.
The writer and the reader? Humanity? Two people in love?
→ An ambiguous first-person plural that only exists inside the writer's brain.

"Praying for something"
→ Intentionally not writing what the object is
= It looks deep, but it's empty inside.
→ A convenient word that can mean anything depending on interpretation, like "my favorite idol," "health," "an ex," or "a deadline."

"Before we know it, we call that love"
→ Hey, wait a minute.
What is "that"? The something you were praying for? The act of praying itself?
→ In the end, they just want to name it "love," and the meaning doesn't follow.

The danger of this type of syntax is that because it "applies to anything," it seems relatable at first glance, but in the end, nobody understands anything.
Therefore, the answer is "there are many kinds of love."

Readers aren't free. Articles that force you to read like an examinee—searching for parentheses, deducing subjects, and imagining hidden themes—are usually closed halfway through.
No one tries to read them with comprehension.

It's because there are readers who try to properly grasp the meaning that the danger of this syntax is exposed.

People who decipher it are reading combatants.
Because they can see the form, they know things like, "I can break this syntax with a jab," or "That analogy was a weak right hook."
They feel like Tenshin Nasukawa or Naoya Inoue.

By the way, if you ask the person who wrote this, "What is the subject?"
they will say, "That's not the point," so be careful.

Even so, there are people who say, "It gets across to those who understand."
Yes, of course it gets across.

Because the reader is doing the work of repairing the syntax for you.