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A Letter in the Spirit of Seneca My friend, You speak of freedom as the composer of your days—this is wisdom. But let us examine the score more closely. The blank page you cherish is ruled with invisible lines: the ledger’s demand, the body’s need for bread, the promises made when ambition outstripped the moon.…
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“The world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are strong at the broken places.” -Ernest Hemingway (Beginning: The Letting Go)I watch your shadow detach itselffrom mine—no fanfare,just the quiet severingof what I thought was permanent.Your eyes, once warm as whiskey,now reflect only absence. (Middle: The Falling)They say what goes upmust come down.But no one warns youabout…
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How have you adapted to the changes brought on by the Covid-19 pandemic? “You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you can’t fool all of the people all of the time.” –Lincoln This cuts both ways and showed to be true.…
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There’s an echo in my chest where your wings used to hum— a flutter pressed against me, bright as morning’s first yawn. It wasn’t long ago, that fullness. Now the space stretches wide, folding me small— a damp kite tangled in branches, a paper cup buckling under air. I’ve tried filling it with anything but…
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“Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself. But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires: To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. To know the pain of too much tenderness. To be wounded by your own understanding of love;…
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I’ve retired from naming shit after myself. The last one ended in a divorce decree and a lawyer’s bill. A building, park, or library wing? Yeah, I can see it now—crumbling foundations, overgrown weeds, or a dusty annex no one visits. Hard pass.
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Marylyn murmured “good night” through the phone, and Hank fired back a curt “Night,” thumb smashing the end call button before her rejection could hit—just a silent void now, no echo of the old days when a handset’s clunk marked the end. Gone was the heft of plastic in hand, the small speaker and microphone…
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Struttin’ Your StuffYou’re struttin’ your stride,threads loud and bright,pants huggin’ tight,feelin’ just right.Shirt’s a snug tease,assets in view,glidin’ with ease,king of the crew. Think John Travolta,Stayin’ Alive on blast,(beat thumps—boom, you’re fast),head bobbin’ side to side,back and forth, so fly,every eye’s glued,you’re the guy. Boom, boom,chakka, chakka,strut’s in full swing,you’re owning everything—then your big toe-tipsnags…
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When I was five, I was a lost boy,a Peter Pan with a heart full of Neverland,and I didn’t want to grow up.I’ve always had a hard time letting go—of things, of moments, of the small universethat spun around me at five years old. To give up being five felt like betrayal.My world was a…
“All colors made me happy even grey.” Nabokov, Pale Fire
A German carpenter by day working hard to follow a Jewish carpenter, exploring writing as a creative outlet. Passionate about learning through practice and observation.
BB Grey--musings 