love
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“I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.”— William Ernest Henley, from “Invictus” (1875) Bathsheba, Veiled in MistI watch, unblinking,through the shadowed pane—I’m a silhouette cloaked in intent,my gaze a thread you can’t hold.Your form falters under my stare,cloth clings too tight,a confession I don’t need to hear.I feel
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There are sanctuaries where I lose myself, where the world blurs into a soft hum and I am untethered, free. Writing and reading, of course, are the steady flames—ink spilling like a river over the page, words unfurling like petals in my mind. But there is another, a wilder refuge: running. It’s a solitary dance,
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What movie or TV series have I watched more than five times? There are likely a few contenders, but one stands above the rest: Chariots of Fire. This film entered my life in the 1980s, a golden era when I was in the prime of my youth—running track and cross country, chasing fleeting romances, and
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So, I wake up early because I crash early—makes sense, right? But 1:30 a.m.? That’s not early; that’s just rude. I tried to zen out, refusing to grab my phone or flip on the lights—basically avoiding the overstimulation trap I used to fall into with my little girls. Back when they were 1 or 2,
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that love endures, even when you don’t tend to it as closely as you should The last thing I’ve learned—truly learned, in a way that settles into your bones and rearranges the way you see the world—came to me just last night, over a quiet dinner with my sister. It was one of those moments
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A Fifth of Jack Blank pages later,you etched your name into my mind—a spark I could never quench. Pastel prose and smeared art,oil vibrant yet marred,a still life rewritten in hesitant strokes. In charcoal hues my heart smolders;pain shatters into shards of broken glass,a quiet river of a bitter past. You turn the page—an indifferent,
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“In you, I am willingly and unwillingly lost and found—drawn into the pull of fate, captivated by the unexpected, and caught between hesitation and the irresistible force of you.” -bb grey
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“You are the smooth stone in my pocket—forgotten until touched, a memory I bury yet carry, shaping my walk with quiet sorrow and stubborn hope.” bb grey Yesterday,while exchanging small words with an acquaintance—a fleeting face in the blur of days—I slipped my hand into my pocket,and there you were:a smooth pebble,forgotten beneath the jumble
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Part I The San Gabriel Mountains stretched across the horizon, their peaks rising anywhere from five to ten thousand feet, dusted with the remnants of winter’s last breath. The recent storms had draped elevations above 5,000 feet in fresh snow, transforming them into inverted ice cream cones dipped in vanilla. As the sun climbed higher,
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One extreme to another,we move like shadows in a hall of mirrors,chasing reflections of what never was. I thought you loved me—but love is a language I misread,syllables slipping between regretand the point of diminishing returns. We all make mistakes,excuses have their uses,like slicing a cake into piecestoo small to taste. Shaking a hand, clenching
BB Grey--musings 