Slowly killing myself each day to be the person I thought everyone wanted me to be. Now I feel as shallow as my grave. The one my persona dug. And I worry that when I look at the camera, people can see it. The old me I killed. That hides just beneath the surface, underneath what was supposed to be a temporary act, not a permanent play.

My grave. My obituary never saw the light of day.

And I fear the only one who grieved, was me.

I ponder

Do I exist at all?

Do you?

How do we know this to be true?

©S.J.Reed

There is a theory, which seems to get more legitimate each year and backed by scientific research in well received magazine publications, which argues that mankind is a simulation, each human a highly computerized and encoded digital creature, maybe even preprogrammed before birth.

This would suggest that there’s an entirely different, new world beyond the so-called earth in which we inhabit, occupied perhaps by angels awaiting our passage. One can imagine great walls and concrete doors dividing us from some celestial nirvana.

Maybe it’s a ridiculous thought. But when I listen to the music of B.B. King, I reckon I might believe it.

You can close your eyes and see the music of B.B. King. It reels into your heart like fishing line and the hook sets right in, opening up doors and breaking down walls to worlds never known before.

His music, the roaring voice like the echo of lions and dynamite guitar licks that erupt constantly, each note screaming through the eardrums like bullets and gliding so perfectly through the soul, as though they are trickles upon the canvas skies—it pulls you out of water. It stretches through outer space, bursting like a star, sets Mars afire and paints the rings around Saturn, bends around galaxies and unlocks a door to a dark room and strikes light from the sun like a match before your face, leaving one nearly without words, save for Jesus Christ or Holy Shit.

It could be called a religious experience, leading you past the churches and altars, the crowds in the pews, the boring sermons, the lifeless hymns and directs you straight before the angels themselves.

Finally, it leaves you without breath, stopping your heartbeat, then with the closing of each track, tosses you back into the water.

That is B.B. King.

I sat still

Slowing my breathing

Hoping my heart follows suit

I am waiting to hear her breathing

To sense her heartbeat

Hoping she is hoping as I am

We are both promised to others

Not by choice

But, neither of us said no when it counted to do so

Now, right now, it counts to say no

Now, right now, it counts to say other words

Primarily, three little words in a row

Our hands touch

Her pulse accelerates

As does mine

We are horses in the gate

Waiting to be unleashed

Waiting to run away together

But, such a sad word, that word, but

Penultimate to impending despair and miscarriage

But, we could have - should have departed

But, we never departed

Maybe we were never meant to be

But, my pulse still races thinking we are

As does hers

"I want to hear you say it again!"

"I wanted a friend. I wanted a friend . . ."

"I wanted a friend for life. A rainy day friend. A friend who walks in when all others walk out. You only have a single hour remaining to have all of this memorized."

"Couldn't I just shorten it? She would know, but the rest of the congregation wouldn't. Besides, everyone knows Sara is much smarter than me. They will forgive me."

"You're right. The congregation, the guests, the families, even Sara will (eventually) forgive, but none will ever forget. You and Sara went over these vows for the better part of four months now. She has them memorized. You should too."

I had my doubts about Jack. He wants to marry Sara and Sara has always wanted to marry Jack, but, I think the closer these two get to the wedding, the more questionable the wedding will actually become. First it was Jack's last two ex's and their last ditch efforts. Lisa wanted Jack for herself. Linda didn't want Jack with Sara.

Then, I had my doubts about Jack. Sara and I have been friends for years so she asked me to help Jack straighten-up and fly right. I took it upon myself to learn Jack's vows and make him learn them also. I wasn't here as the best man to accept failure. However, I wasn't going to babysit Jack forever.

Eight more attempts to browbeat a man who shouldn't require browbeating.

I gave up when he asked for a "line", interrupted my recitation of the vows, and answered his cell phone. I knew it was Lisa. If it was the last minute, it was always Lisa.

The guests heard that song. Then they listened to that question. If Jack was going to cut and run, it was now.

He did think about it though. Maybe twenty seconds is nothing for some people, but for an anxious bride and 120 guests, twenty seconds is an eternity.

Then came the vows. Sara went first leaving not a dry eye in the house. I read what she wrote and lip-synced it as she spoke. No one who feels this much deserves this little. Perhaps Jack had been playing me for the fool. Perhaps he had his vows at the ready.

Perhaps pigs fly.

Either way, Jack, offering the last of his stale boyish charm couldn't make it past the fourth word. He whispered to me for help. I gave him exactly what he wanted. Although, what I offered, was not in the hushed tones he anticipated.

“Sara. I wanted a friend for life. A rainy day friend. A friend who walks in when all others walk out. You are that friend. You offer me your hopes and dreams and desires for the life you want me to both receive and protect. Only a friend extends this proposition. Only a husband accepts it. I promise to be the man you want, the partner who will grow with you. I vow to be the faithful husband who will love, honor, and cherish you, forsaking all others, on this journey, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.”

The Minister waited until the commotion ceased before speaking.

Not to the guests. Speaking only to Sara.

"I can change the name on the marriage license during the kissing of the bride."

The term, "Best Man" has an origin associated with the friend of the groom during a time when the groom needed help stealing a young woman away from her family to be his wife.

Today, it is now a contest of sincerity.

I had too much rice in my hair to think about that today.

The lies

the hatred

The abuse

You choose to lose with your neck in a noose

And you tied the knot but you blamed the seller who sold you the rope

And you bled out all your emotions and never learned to cope

So you hurt the child that you were supposed to protect

Repeated trauma of abandonment and neglect

You pretend your reality is one where you can do no harm

And every one else is at fault for becoming the person you are.

You lit the match and threw the flame

And the drugs and the booze only fuel the blame

Diluting your emotions of guilt and shame

And as the fire spreads

You drink the last of the water

Shielding your face from the smoke

And choking your daughter.

©S.J.Reed

"talkin' 'bout a revolution...' took on a whole new meaning,

Seems like Lenin's body is now homeless and the old commie dog needs a flea collar.

Seems like the need to be free was stronger than the need to be controlled...

So what's happening at home?

Well the middle of the road has been moved to the left.

We question a black man for being black, tell a woman it's not her body.

Offer the homeless a curb for a bed, we treat the victims of illness

Like the lepers of old.

Created a new class of have and have nots.

Told the old lady to hit the streets, sold out the workers for an extra two bucks...

And decided the stealth bomber was worth more than our hungry.

We educate our children to be burger slingers, speak ill of the dead before they're cold...

And the only qualification for congress is that you can lie with a straight face.

The National Endowment of the Arts has become the National Censor Board

And the right to question has become the right to be ignored.

Somewhere along the way Citibank bought out Americana, the Senate lost America...

And the President is looking at the third world for a replacement to the old commie dog...

Otherwise everything's fine...

Love always...

Mother.