Posted in honesty, hope, poetry

Cynical

Cynical   I wished on eyelashes until my eyes had been cried bare, fantasies drained and replaced by a brittle heart, desiccated to sawdust, the shell of trust withered with each tear lost.   An errant eyelash fell to my cheek this morning. I caressed it onto my fingertip and considered the magic once bestowed to its freedom, magic as betraying as the hope that someday those wishes would come true.   I let the eyelash fall to the floor, without the whispers of tomorrow enchanting its flight, brushing its absence against my skirt, forgetting the wish were ever an option.

I used to wish the same thing every time I found an eyelash on my cheek. I’d pucker my lips and let a puff of air carry my wish to the wind, where it waited, caught in stasis, never rising to fruition. I whispered the same words in my head for years, believing that if I wanted it badly enough that some force would hear me and that the one thing I always wanted would manifest.

It’s not that I believe in magic or superstition or the power of wishing on a shooting star, but I believed that having that much faith in something for that long would carry me through, that if I never gave up that somehow planets would align.

I can’t say right now that my wish won’t come true since I don’t know what the future holds, but I’ve found it more and more difficult to place faith in unrequited fantasy. I don’t like letting my eyelashes fall to the floor unacknowledged, effusing cynicism and defeat as dust coats the lash on the fall to the ground.

I refuse to give up, but it’s hard not to.

Tonight I’m obsessed with the Breaking Benjamin song “Ashes of Eden” from their new album. I’ve been obsessed with it since the second I heard it. The lyrics haunt me and I’m overwhelmed with a sense of melancholy. I feel the emotion in his voice as deeply as my own. I encourage you to listen and let it wash over you. Close your eyes and sing.

Ashes Of Eden

Will the faithful be rewarded
When we come to the end
Will I miss the final warning
From the lie that I have lived
Is there anybody calling
I can see the soul within
And I am not worthy
I am not worthy of this

Are you with me after all
Why can’t I hear you
Are you with me through it all
Then why can’t I feel you
Stay with me, don’t let me go
Because there’s nothing left at all
Stay with me, don’t let me go
Until the Ashes of Eden fall

Will the darkness fall upon me
When the air is growing thin
Will the light begin to pull me
To its everlasting will
I can hear the voices haunting
There is nothing left to fear
And I am still calling
I am still calling to you

Are you with me after all
Why can’t I hear you
Are you with me through it all
Then why can’t I feel you
Stay with me, don’t let me go
Because there’s nothing left at all
Stay with me, don’t let me go
Until the Ashes of Eden fall

(Don’t let go)
Why can’t I hear you
Stay with me, don’t let me go
Because there’s nothing left at all
Stay with me, don’t let me go
Until the Ashes of Eden fall
Heaven above me, take my hand (Stay with me, don’t let me go)
Shine until there’s nothing left but you
Heaven above me, take my hand (Stay with me, don’t let me go)
Shine until there’s nothing left but you

Good night, friends.
Love,
Leanne Rebecca
Posted in art, poetry, writing

Eyelash

Eyelash  I make the same wish on every errant eyelash. I peel the escapee from my cheek and capture it on the tip of my finger, think my dream in the capsule of a blink, pucker my lips and let a single wisp of air carry it into infinity.  I inhale reality when I look back in the mirror— one less eyelash to cover with mascara.

I’ve started writing in a diary. I’ve found I like the senseless entries, writing whatever comes to my mind, confessing secrets, knowing no one is ever going to read these words (hopefully). One of my favorite teachers back in college used to tell us to write for 15 minutes a day, no matter what it was. The whole point was to develop the discipline to write. I used to write lists of what I did that day or complain about my homework. But then I finished that class and the journal entries stopped.

About two months ago I started them again, maybe not every single day, but whenever I feel like it. This poem is inspired by what I wrote in my journal today during my lunch break, scribbles about it being February and how it’s the month of love. It provoked a particular memory, something profound that happened to me in a February past, and before I knew it, I’d written this poem.

What do you think of when you think of February?

–Leanne Rebecca