I hated it. I hated every part of me that made me desire to create things. 

I hated myself. Why was I like this? Why was I haunted by this need to create? To write? 

Why was it that I felt most alive only when I drew?

I could only ask questions that I would never get answers to as I was thrown through a constant loop of creating and abandoning.

Abandoning.

Once my mind stopped flooding with ideas for a story I was made to abandon it. I could almost never finish a story. No matter how long, how short I just couldn't finish.

Creating gave me a rush, kind of like an adrenaline high, but once it was over, and the ideas stopped flooding my mind, I couldn't do anything anymore. 

And I left that world to rot into nothing but a chapter that was to never be finished.

I didn't like doing it but I couldn't seem to stop myself. When I was writing, I was full of ideas, I loved it.

But once my desire had left me, it was flat, boring, unrealistic, horrific, embarrassing, so straight-forward, undescriptive, nonsense.

I hated it.

I spent so much time creating, creating, creating and I couldn't bring myself to love it in the end.

Why couldn't I just make something that I could love forever?

Why was I ashamed of myself? My work?

I couldn't answer my own questions as I stared at the dozens of stories and story ideas I had abandoned.

I loved them, I had thrown my all into them, and in the end, I still couldn't make myself finish them.

~~

275 words.

- Kari