and the animals i've trapped have all become my pets

I apologize in advance for my excessive questioning, because I'm about to dump some more on the pile of unanswered internal queries. And if I were smarter, I would pay more attention to the word 'internal' and stop saddling the interwebs with my pitiful little musings. But I'm not smart, and I like torturing myself. Plus, maybe one day this will be all that's left of me. How sad is that?

Planning two things at once. Which will win out in the end? Both feel like a conclusion, and both would change everything. Each one cancels out the possibility of the other. One is easy, one is difficult. I'm speaking in riddles and circles because I have to. That is probably really annoying, right? My anonymity should be enough to give me the freedom to speak (type) freely. But I'll never feel free. My nature won't let me. Existence is a roadblock in the way of that particular prize.

I chose a theme. I say 'chose' loosely, since I really had an epiphany about myself which I realized also applies to what is increasingly becoming my alter ego. So the theme is that all of these sad kids, affected by the different tragedies life has to offer, never gave anyone the chance to love them. One is a liar, one is a whore, one is a criminal, and one is a runner. I'll let you guess which one I am.

I'm inside my head so much. I find my patience to be non-existent, and I loathe having to claw myself out when I'm interrupted only to need at least a day to find my way back in. I know I'm still battling writer's block, but I'm appreciating it right now because it feels more like a defense mechanism. I'm paring things down, trimming the fat and digging deeper, but in a focused way, finally. It's hard for me to intimate these thoughts, I know I must sound like a broken record. It feels like a process with many stages. That's all I've got.

But I'm finding it harder and harder to have faith in the process. My other road is so much easier. How can I describe this one? When I close my eyes and think of it, I feel a swelling sense of wellness in my chest. I've described it as an inevitability, and this only strengthens that notion. Am I just using writing as an avoidance mechanism? I prefer to think that's my sane alter ego, Inner Me, trying to fix what's probably too broken for repair.