writing
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If I could be someone else for a day, I would choose to be Jesus. Not to sound sacrilegious, but because I long to experience life through His compassionate and forgiving eyes. I want to see myself as He sees me—unburdened by the weight of my own self-criticism and the negative thoughts that often cloud
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I hear you. And I mean, really hear you. In the grand blueprint of life, the most ambitious DIY project any of us will ever undertake isn’t just built with wood, nails, or stone, but with choices, relationships, and the wisdom we gather along the way. Your words ring true—no project worth its weight is
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If I could ban one word from existence, what would it be? Love. Yeah, that’s right—love’s gotta go. It’s too damn vague, like a one-size-fits-all sweatshirt that fits nobody right. The Eskimos have some plus fifty words for snow—meanwhile, we’re stuck with this single, overstretched syllable to cover everything from banging your significant other to
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“The life that I have known is gone, but in its place, a strange new music plays.”— Adapted from W.H. Auden His head bobbed gently, resting against the cold windowpane of the train as it carved smooth, silver lines across the waking landscape, steel wheels humming beneath steel tracks. Dawn crept in slowly beyond the
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“In a world where the economy spins like a roulette wheel, my biggest challenge is betting on the right number—without losing my shirt.” -bb grey My biggest challenge in the next six months will be outsmarting a volatile economy that keeps tossing unexpected curveballs at my business, all while preserving both my sanity and my
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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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Inspired by All Quiet on the Western Front and the Christmas Truce of 1914 The trench exhales a stale, unreal air,Thick with rot, a shroud none can bear.Wet drips from noses, a ceaseless fall,Chapping lips erased by war’s cruel thrall.A book lies torn—pages shred and weep,Their whispered tales too frail to keep. Silent Night hums
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“The Kool-Aid.” Not because it’s my actual favorite, but because, let’s be honest—we’ve all taken a sip. At some point, we’ve blindly bought into an idea, a cause, or a relationship, ignoring every neon warning sign flashing BAD IDEA. And oh, did I drink. Sometimes I just got queasy, other times, it was a full-on
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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 