i've been breaking prisms so the colours can be free

So I was going through all things I wrote and never posted. This one made me laugh.
I think it's utterly absurd that suicide should be illegal. And really, it's not illegal. Unsuccessful suicide is illegal. They can only do something punitive to you if you don't die. But that annoys me too. Why should it concern other people what you do to yourself? Harm that you cause other people should be illegal, like stopping up traffic by jumping into the street, or getting blood on other people's carpets. I suppose the mental disturbance caused to other people by their knowledge of what you do to yourself could go in this category, and I suppose everything is legal as long as it's secret. But some things that other people try to stop you from involve no disturbance of other people in anyway - for example, when you go to the hospital, something they should be grateful for because you pay way more than the cost of the few stitches. But somehow the system is so confused that instead of just being like, "well thanks very much," they then decide to imprison you for bringing them their paychecks. It's screwed up.

I should write social commentaries more often. Next time I’ll address some of my other causes, such as therapeutic bee-keeping, and how people should take shorter showers.

This is a pretty bit of nothing:
I sit on the dark stone floor of my room with only a dim shaft of afternoon light slanting in through the air. Idly I light some old sparklers one at a time and watch them go, then lay them down to burn out their red glow on the slate. The sparks sting my hands and catch at the bits of color in my clothes - striped socks, a rainbow pouch from my hippie uncle, and the ends of an narrow orange tie hanging from my head, found cast away from a few decades ago…

Here’s a wistful few paragraphs. I think I wrote them on Christmas:
It's a strange game that people play, the effort to appear genuine. I think some of the most admired self expression is really this, an organic quality only made possible by the most meticulous care…

Really, I'm not willing to bear people’s false conceptions of me. That’s why I separate myself. Today, I sat on the piano bench behind the couch and admired the man with dreadlocks who has been around the world. But I didn't talk to him. Also, I moved softly, quietly, throughout the rooms looking at people, their things, their movements, catching at the sound of a laugh, and the exact crinkling of the eyes that goes with it. And shadowing all this was the awareness of my own movements as I watched everyone. It’s a silent assertion of my own existence. I place my feet like this, and I wrap my fingers around my coffee cup so.

I heard someone say this morning "I don't want to know his demons." Maybe it's just a common human effort, to keep the self-demons out of sight. I don't know. I won't know ever, will I?

What if life is meant to be primarily experienced as a mystery, with understanding as the exception? The great things - the ecstasy and the misery - don't seem to give any preference to understanding. It's like the fog around this Christmas - everything in a blur. Or perhaps it is just a raw honesty. They are themselves simply, and without explanation.

And that's how I find things lately - without explanation. I don't mind though - I think that life is its own justification.