I hate writing.

I find it incredibly ironic that I'm writing about hating writing, but I've never hated and loved something so badly. Notebooks in the bookshelves scattered across my home call to me, whispering. And I vow never to touch them, but I long to so badly. I narrate my day in my head, describing the view, my movements, and I push it away. It's become so natural, narrating, pushing, narrating, pushing; I can't stop. I hate it, I hate it. I read the things I write and burn the pages watching them swirl to ash. I draw and draw where I once wrote, hoping that I can leave it all behind. But can I? Maybe the one thing I'm good at is the one thing I hate. This is the one chance I'm giving myself. If I can't write a good story about magic horses, then what can I do?