writing
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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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“The tools of conquest do not necessarily come with bombs and explosions and fallout. There are weapons that are simply thoughts, attitudes, prejudices… a thoughtless, frightened search for a scapegoat has a fallout all its own.” — Rod Serling I swing the hammer against the anvil of the day,each strike a clang of bone and
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So I’m just a regular dude, right? Busting my hump every day, trying to keep the lights on and the fridge stocked. Then this word “tariff” barges into my life like some nasty black goo you’d peel off your flip-flop after a Santa Barbara beach day. You know—that tar that stinks like a bad decision
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When someone asks, “What animal are you?” my brain instantly fires off a zoo’s worth of options. Cheetah? Fast and flashy—tempting. Owl? Wise and mysterious—sure, I’ll take it. Elephant? Big, strong, and unforgettable—why not? Even a hippo crossed my mind (don’t judge, those chompers are no joke). But then I paused mid-thought—hold up, my diet’s
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So, where would I go on a shopping spree? Buckle up, because this might shock you. I’m a sucker for REI—give me hiking gear and tools any day—but deep down? I’m a mushy romantic. Yeah, I know, wild plot twist! If my employees or subcontractors caught wind of this, they’d choke on their energy drinks
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You carried wounds you never asked for,shadows that were never yours to hold.Yet, when it was your turn,you chose to fight instead of fold. No one showed you how to heal,yet you learned,through trial, through error,through nights you thought you’d break.Still, you rose. The weight of silence pressed against your throat,but you spoke.The echoes of
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Do you dream, my love,in hues of wheat and gold,a harvest ripe and radiant,glowing beneath storm-blue skies—their vastness flecked with gray,a tempest’s tender prelude? I see you,rain-rose petals, nude and pink,scattered soft against the ivory silkof your skin—smooth as clay,unmarred, awaiting the artist’s hand.A canvas alive,you beckon my brush,strokes bold and delicate—oil pastels in saffron
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I tally my days,a quiet inventory—wins and lossesetched upon a fragile card.Today, a single Woutshines the L,and tomorrow dawns,a tender promise,small at times,yet woven with hope nonetheless. I sought You today,in the shadow of my helplessness,in the fleeting breath of praise.I called to Youwhen strength faltered,when weakness bowed me low,in humility’s soft cradle,in honor’s fleeting
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“He fell for her so hard he forgot where he parked his spine—last I checked, she’s still driving it around town.”— Ring Lardner Oh, man, haven’t we all been there? You meet someone, and suddenly you’re convinced they’re the whole damn universe—stars, planets, cat’s meow, the works. You hurl yourself into it head over heels,
BB Grey--musings 