letters in my trash can

The undelivered.

To John Stamos, forgive me for my frequent eye contact but I think if we had the chance we would be good friends.

To the emu enthusiast, we walked together in heaven. I know it. I like you.

To the manic-depressive writer, I lied. I'm not ok most the time but I'd like to think that I'm good at acting. I'm afraid that time will run out and I will still be burning on the back of your stove. But at least I'm a pot of tea. That's your favorite.

To my best friend born to the worst circumstances, I'll see you again. I promise. But until then, keep laughing that sassy laugh of yours and picking up the kids that cry on the dusty playground. You're a leader. You just might be the one to lift your village out of their slump.

To that one kid, sorry I'm so awkward around you. I blame it on the half year of home schooling.

To the strange baby child, you are the most patient person on this planet. You not only deal with me, but you love me for some reason. You don't know how much that means. I could have tickle fights with you forever.

To my best friend brain, you suck.

To the boy I always turn to, yes. I might be secretly in love with you. But it's the old you, not the new you.

To Brigham Young University, like John Stamos, I think once we break the ice we'll be great friends. But right now you scare me a little.

To the boy that sits alone at lunch and writes, you are more interesting to me than any person at this school. I would choose an enthralling writer over a sports fanatic any day. And I look up to you for having the courage to be yourself.

To the girl with colorful pants and spontaneity in every step, as much as I hate it, I am genuinely happy for you. You remind me of myself a little bit. I know you were jumping around on hotel beds with your best friend that night. So as much as my heart hurts, you make me smile.

To my Canadian seminary teacher, I wish you knew how much you have helped me through when I felt like I couldn't make it.

To Steven Pressfield, thanks. That's all.

To the girl that gets a little teary when she laughs, I'm sorry for making your senior year not as good as you envisioned. I didn't mean to steal your best friend. But she loves you more than you know.

To Eponine, you're not alone, girl.

To my first kiss, thanks for giving me a good example of the way someone should love me. You put most men to shame.

To the college girl, you'll always have a special place in my heart, but as much as we deny it, I think we're drifting. We'll still be grandmas together. Promise. 

To my 10th grade English teacher, I remember the day I told you I was moving away. I got emotional and you told me to never stop using my camera or writing because I was truly talented. I think you were the first one I believed.

To the boy in the halls that asks me how I am, you're too nice and I don't like you. Sorry bud, try being genuine next time.

To that one red head, stop liking shy people. They REALLY aren't for you. You are confident enough to love a confident guy. Trust me. Also you're beautiful and I love you.

To God, I think you know what I'm going to say.

To the music goddess, now I understand why you couldn't get over that jerk for so long. I'm glad you've found someone better.

To Snot College, I hate you so freaking much.

To her, I don't know you well enough to address this letter any other way, but I'm jealous of your talents and you don't know how lucky you are to have him. Please treat him right.

To the Red Devil, you know who she is. We accept the love we think we deserve. 

To Kat Stratford, I don't know who you are but I admire your profanity.

To Eric Mika, I wish you were cooler.

To the biggest smile, I see through your confidence and I don't think you realize how magnificent you are. Also, thanks for calling me brilliant. Getting blog comments is the straight and narrow path to my heart.

To my Mom, your arms are my greatest comfort. Forgive my stormy eyes, but I like the way you wipe my tears away. You believe in my writing more than anyone.

To Imagine Dragons, you make my heart explode. Also, I cry happy tears over you. You're welcome.

To my freckles, never disappear. You're my one beauty.

To senior year, it's been terrible and wonderful and I was wondering if I could ask you one favor? Please slow down.

To my future self, always remember these moments. Keep them in your pocket and let your pocket fill up with memories until it weighs enough to pull your pants down. That's the kind of life you want. 


The more I think the more letters I have so I need to just cut this off or no one will read it.
If you knew every person on this list then you know me pretty well.
If I didn't include you on this, sorry. I probably still like you. 

Voices.

I'm scared that there are no more ideas to be dreamt of; that every combination of words has already been glued together into a montage of syntax and callused fingers. What if every sentence I painstakingly create has already been created? Are there any new ideas? Hasn't some Founding Father or Asian or starving writer already thought these same fabrications before? Sometimes my fingers are reaching and stretching as desperately as they can to grasp onto something original, only to find that there are already thousands of index fingers and pinkies taking claim on that same thought.

But maybe, then, it's the voice that is different. Maybe we're all scribbling the same words but the cadence in our writing makes the distinction. 

The trouble is, I'm still searching for my voice. None of my writing is consistent because I am surrounded by all of this noise. NOISE. And I can't concentrate. I can't hear myself over all of this yelling. I just want to be read and be critiqued and be hated and admired. But my hands covering my ears are not good enough to block out all of these other VOICES. One day I will write like that one girl with long hair. I like her diction and fresh ideas. And then I'll write like that beautiful boy down the street. He can turn a pile of dirt into something exquisite.

What if someday I develop a terminal case of laryngitis?

Disconnect Pt. 2

"Oh, little Michaela. Things will work out, don't you fret. Maybe you don't understand your self, but I understand you. And it's going to be ok. I have immense trust in you and your abilities, so now just trust in Me."

I found a crystal of light in my pocket.

Disconnect

All I do is run around trying to make connections. I just want my heart strings to intertwine with someone else's for two seconds a day and then I will be satisfied. But lately I feel a disconnect, like the lightbulb in my head isn't quite screwed in all the way so there's no light. And ultimately, I have come to realize how lonely my little lightbulb is. It all comes down to this: we are all alone inside our heads.

I stood there today at lunch smiling when I was expected to and giving curtesy laughs to the jokes that weren't funny. I hugged people and wrinkled my nose when they teased me. But when I looked into people's eyes I didn't feel seen. It continually amazes me that it is completely possible to feel lonely in a crowd.

My heart is slowly retreating into the caverns of my rib bones because I'm frightened of this disconnect (I know it's a paradox. Don't tell me what to feel.). I feel this all coming to an end and my fingers are grasping for things that seem just out of reach. I want to make long lasting friendships with people but all "they" ever tell me is that you never stay in touch with your high school friends. 

I'm scared of my own apathy.

I'm scared to go to college by myself.

I'm afraid that even when I think they do, people don't really understand me. You. You think you understand me but you don't see the tears I shed when I'm sitting RIGHT behind you.

Time has me in shackles and gravity keeps me down.

I just want to scream.

It frightens me that I am ultimately alone in my brain and yet I don't understand it. At all. I thought at least I could understand my Self.

Someone please knock me over the head and look into my skull and comprehend what is in my brain.

Someone please screw the lightbulb in. 

It's dark in here.