I haven't posted in a while. It's not because I'm not writing. I write every day. It's because I'm afraid to post here. I'm afraid to let Real Life Mikayla speak where Kindness Bus Mikayla reigns. I am hyper conscious of what I publish and it has created a massive divide in what I deem kindnessmiles worthy. I'm afraid of sharing things that aren't pleasant, polished, and perfect. I'm afraid to be authentic. I'm afraid to share my inherent vulgarity because, let's face it, I say "fuck." A lot. (Thanks Mom.)
When I think about sharing my unfiltered thoughts on the interwebs I get a little bit nauseous. Sometimes its the "OMG maybe someone will love my brainthinks and want to be Best Fucking Friends Forever" kind of nausea but oftentimes it's the "I don't want to be called weird for the twelve-hundredth time in my life" kind of nausea.
But I feel compelled to do it because I want an outlet, a way to share, and a way to let my words out of my fingertips and into the ether.
Countless times throughout my life I have found solace in the recorded words of others. In books, in magazines, online, and on the back of bathroom stall doors. I have had moments of connection through single words and simple phrases. I've copied hundreds of beautiful paragraphs into shitty notebooks. I've read entire books out loud to fill the space around me with their dimensions.
Even greater than my love for soaking up the written creations of others is my love for creating my own. I love to write. Whether it's single word doodles on the corner of the morning paper, elaborate love letters penned between fictional characters, a haiku about being stuck in the airport, or an entire novel made of mayhem and magic ... whether or not I keep it or share it, I love it most.
So if by doing this I risk being called weird for the twelve-hundredth time ... than fuck it.
Seriously, fuck it.
I am weird.