creative writing
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“Be real,” she said,her voice smooth, practiced,like someone asking for the truthonly to fold it neatly away. Love was a currency to her,spent in small, measured doses,never more than necessary,never without expectation of return. Silence settled between us,thick, heavy—the taste of stale bread on my tongue,the ocean stretching out before me,salt licking the edges of
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“We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.” — Pierre Teilhard de Chardin When I Die Bury me beneath the hush of pine,where resin weeps in golden threadsand roots murmur secrets to the soil. Mark me not with chiseled stone,no name, no weight of letters—let the
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Unravel the ocean’s veiled skin,a spectral hush between me and earth,blue sinews clutching my limbs,whispering weightless lies— float, drift, pull—further, further—or drown. The tide chants hymns of urgency,promises carved in salt:“arrive, achieve, or vanish.” I claw towards the vanishing edge,where breath and bone dissolve,where the Fixx hums through vacant veins,a beach of endings waiting,waiting—for me
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Umm… I don’t know? Because if I did, wouldn’t that mean it was intentional? Wait, what? And now I’m spiraling down a philosophical rabbit hole. So… yes. I mean, no. Actually, that’s a hard no. (I think.)
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“I wasn’t heartbroken, just lonely in that special way where your friends exist like emergency plastic car keys—useful in theory, but likely to snap off in the lock when you actually need them.” 3:30 AM Came Fast 3:30 came fast this morning, and the Writing Gods demanded my attendance. I rolled out of bed, bleary-eyed,
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She loved being chased. Not just for the thrill, but for the way it made her feel less alone. Like the world still turned for her, like someone, somewhere, believed she was worth the pursuit. She hated being caught. Hated the moment when the hands reached her waist, when desire became expectation, when the chase
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“A man may don many garments—some ill-fitting, some absurd—stitched from the words of others. But the cut of one’s true self cannot be tailored by another’s hand.” bb grey-hyde “Dr. J. E. Kyll and Mr. Feels: A Treatise on Overthinking and Emotional Minefields” The hour finds me in contemplation, my mind still burdened by the
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“We are all just echoes of something we can never fully hear.” bb grey You dangled your limbs—loosely, languidly, long—over the edge of a timeworn pier,where salt gnawed the timber to shades of grey and black,a stark contrast to the soft ivory of your skin. You traced slow circles,toe-tips dipping like the plucking of a
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“I will die. Morning arrived in a muted gray, the silence heavy, almost suffocating. I stood at the edge of our life together, fingers twitching with the impulse to reach out, to fix something already shattered. She had left in the night, returned without explanation. Her absence was a wound; her presence, a reminder
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“Let us die young or let us live foreverWe don’t have the power but we never say neverSitting in a sandpit, life is a short tripThe music’s for the sad men” Forever Young, Alphaville A response: Let us chase echoes where time has no tether, Fading like whispers or dancing forever. Fingers trace stories
BB Grey--musings 