writing
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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
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“The years apart folded into a single breath,and the greater homecoming—to her, to Him—lit the universe with a quiet, unending hello.” It’s been twenty-five years, give or take a shimmer,since I last saw your shadow spill across the floor,a silhouette I knew for thirty-three tender turns of the earth.I’m older now—older than you ever carved
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Technology has significantly transformed my job as a builder, and its impact continues to evolve. One of the most notable advancements is in the tools I use daily. The shift from corded to battery-powered tools has been a game-changer. These cordless options are not only convenient but often outperform their corded counterparts, offering greater efficiency
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(A Greek Tragedy in Verse) [Prologos: The Dreamer’s Lament]O Fates, cruel weavers of the night’s design,An ache gnaws deep, a thread malign.A nightmare crashes, wild and unbound,Spinning my soul to Stygian ground.I yearn for death’s release, its silent shroud—Yet all’s a lie, a phantom’s taunt aloud:Pain, a game, a smileless jest,A demon’s curse upon my
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The daily post prompt about how often saying “no” interferes with our goals made me reflect on how frequently my “yes” gets in the way of my own aspirations. For me, saying “yes” too often creates busyness that distracts me from the most important things in life. How often do you say “no” to protect
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Aloofness her shield,Warding off rejection’s bite,Numbing heart and soul—She shunned warm embraces’ glow,Left cold in solitude’s grasp.
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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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Who was your most influential teacher? Why? For me, it’s a handful. Ms. Hendin, my third-grade homeroom teacher—she was the first to call me smart in a way that stuck, and I believed her. That shifted everything. My parents, who drilled humility and hard work into me, roots I still lean on. Coach T., who
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Morning crashed in like a drunk stumbling through my door—too damn soon. I squeezed my eyes shut, faking sleep, hoping the dark would swallow me back. Didn’t work. My head flickered with the big shit—the kind that jolts you awake at 3 a.m., all jagged edges and no mercy. I told myself it was just
BB Grey--musings 