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;