writing
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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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The Road Swallowed Most of Him Eighteen wheelsgrind even the best down—red-raw streakson black asphalt,a lonelinessthat claws for homewhen home’sjust a ghost in the rearview. Michael Smith,ordinary as rust,dreamed of morethan this rig could haul.Kept the dragoncaged between the lines,huffing, puffing,no spark left—his magic carpetragged, grounded,ride over. He whispered goodbye,couldn’t face another mile.An empty house,bills
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What’s the one question I hate being asked? The last one I just answered. Seriously—were you even listening? I just laid it all out, and here we are again, round two. As a business owner, I’m used to fielding questions—nonstop, all day, every day. The buck, the puck, the rubber duck, whatever you’re tossing my
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“The snow fell soft as memory, blanketing the world outside, while the fire within whispered her name—Jacklyn, the spark that never fades.” The last-minute bustle had swept through town like a fevered wind. Shelves at the local grocery stood barren, picked clean by hands clutching canned goods and bread. Firewood was hauled indoors in armloads,
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Ever feel like Noah? Some voice from on high says, “Get to work,” and there you are, hammering planks together without a clue why, while everyone else is sipping coffee and flipping through their phones. You do it anyway, nod to the sky, and next thing you know, you’re floating—flood all around, nobody in sight,
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I hit a dead end today. No sirens, no flashing lights—just a flat, unblinking fact. The road stopped, and so did I. You get to a dead end one of two ways. Sometimes you see it coming, the signs piling up like cracked pavement, and you still drive toward it, half-curious, half-resigned. Other times it
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I embarked on ritualistic quests—reading Russian short novels in the twilight,playing timed chess as minutes slipped like sand,fasting to one humble meal a day,drinking bitter espresso to puncture the haze,smoking in the quiet solitude of dusk,and pickling myself in vodka’s icy embrace,laboring until every morning,my limbs begged gentle guidancejust to stir into motion. In that
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Three Objects I Couldn’t Live Without At first, my mind jumped to the obvious: faith, love, hope—the big three. And of course, loved ones. But since those aren’t exactly “objects” (and I don’t want to get lost in philosophical rabbit holes), I’ll stick to material things—stuff you can touch, hold, maybe even drop on your
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Fate? Destiny? They sound like the tagline for a cheesy rom-com—or maybe a buddy cop flick where Fate’s the brooding loner and Destiny’s rocking aviators and a cocky grin. I can’t help but picture that moment in Titanic where Billy Zane’s character, all smug and slick, whips out his gun and declares, “I make my
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Letting go wasn’t a choice, but a season—winter, relentless in its hush.I fell with no ground, no direction,only the ache of motion without meaning. The warmth fled, roots curled inward,and endings did not ask permission. Yet even winter must break,ice must bow to thaw.I did not say goodbye—I let it turn to earth,to feed what
BB Grey--musings 