When an economist writes in sense of natural aesthetics only miracle happens with his pen. Reason is though not required to explain everything, though in this case I dare to rationalize my earlier statement. Economists are good at their subtle vision of materiality; you may take several examples, lead towards this hypothesis. It is materiality leaps towards aesthetics, only then miracle happens. Miracle is not a cult practice; it is a sense of wonder, like a child inhabits on innocence. It is in fact a quest of inquiry without fear or shame. Writing is a social affirmation and an art of 'surrealistic pragmatism'. You write what you perceive; I would rather say, 'You write what you want to perceive, and in fact, you perceive the way your willing moves your cognition. Everything is there to perceive; it is upto you to canvass how do you want. Writing is abhored by Philosophers of old traditions. I don't know what is old and new; everything exists in transition to borrow the wisdom of Buddha. Why do they hate writing? How do they conclude that oratory is natural instead of inscription? Because their perception regarding nature is governed by limited scope of reasoning. They meditate more on exclusion in order to shape a discourse. In that way, inclusive wisdom is missing in their articulation. Jacques Derrida names it 'Logocentrism'; where Logos precedes and presides over 'Ethos' and 'Pathos'. I don't know if humans are doing something unnatural? Are we living in a kingdom of heaven where human's artifacts are heavenly. We are governed by the same law of nature even though Positivists cry for secular law. There is no human law which deserves the name of law. It is a minor tweak and twist which is helpful in creating and sustaining the myth of security. It's better to realize and accept what we are at the first place. False illusion remains till the memory faints and fades. Once memory dies the creativity which is a matter of proud for humankind until now, becomes a matter of redicule and embarrassment.
पढ़ता हूँ हर एक दिन एक ही पन्ना, हर दिन हज़ार ये मालूम पड़ते हैं। जबसे होश संभाला है एक ही पन्ना सवांरते आया हूँ, लोग इसे ज़िन्दगी कहते हैं। इसपे लिखे हर एक लब्ज़ जो मेरे मालूम पड़ते हैं, ना जाने कितने जुबां पे चढ़े होंगे। आज हम भी कुछ पल के लिए ही सही इसके सारथी हैं, जाने से पहले कुछ रंग मेरा भी इसपे चढ़ जाए, बस इसीलिए एक ही पन्ना बार बार पलटता रहता हूँ। हर कोई अनजाने किताब की तलाश में बाहर निकलता है, जिसका हर एक पन्ना वो ख़ुद है। जब ख़ुद के रंग को समझ ही ना पाया, तो भला इंद्रधनुषी किताब के क्या मायने हैं? अस्तित्व में ना जाने कितने पन्ने बिखरे पड़े हैं, बस एक से ही अवगत हो जाऊँ, उसके हर एक शब्द को चुनता जाऊँ, कुछ पल के लिये सही, पिरोता जाऊँ एक माला ज़िन्दगी का।
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