October 2025
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The sun is practicing its escape,pulling a blanket of cloudsover its tired shoulders.I watch it go. This gray afternoon has been a thief,lifting me from my own life,leaving me with thoughtsthat don’t fit my hands. I’ve been counting victories,stacking them against the losses.The sky holds its own scale—evening will be the judge. There is a
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Journal Edition The mind is quiet this morning.No blaze, just a low light.That’s okay. The world insists we know at once,as if understanding were a switch,not a seed. I dreamt a stalk rising into the sky,a ladder of green—something to send me upand bring back downwhat I knew could grow. So much of what we
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Some people are addicted to chaos because peace is unfamiliar.—Unknown The calendar circles something close. I don’t mean to wound—only to tell the truth: we’re speaking across a distance we built, one line at a time. You said, “We need to have a conversation.” It lands like corporate speak, a eulogy before the body’s even
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A man fixes what’s broken in a woman’s house long after he’s stopped being able to fix what’s broken between them. Brett was on the phone with Kelly, listening as she recounted the small dramas of her workday.“So-and-so was complaining about this and that,” she said, her voice running out of steam until resignation set
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After the squirrel, after the bread I. 4 a.m. — the heater hums its question. Afternoon, the air conditioner answers back. Between them: my body, a pendulum of want. II. Winter is a furnace. Summer, the frantic living. But here, autumn — I am learning the grammar of letting go while still breathing. The verb
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It’s Friday, which is supposed to mean something—and I suppose it does, to those people. The ones I imagine still belong to the Thank-God-It’s-Friday congregation. Their voices rise like smoke from a distant fire I can no longer smell. But at fifty-seven, when there’s so little left to kill, Friday arrives like fog along a
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I folded paper into impossible geometries— each crease a prayer, each angle a small architecture of longing. The planes I launched were clumsy birds learning flight from the dictionary of my hands. I refolded them. Again. Again. Believed the things I thought meant something would find their way through air to where you breathed. But
BB Grey--musings 