I sit in the electric chair where the memories of yesteryear bubble to the surface like a hot spring of sulfur laden water. Rooted in darkness they cry to be brought into the light but oppressed they hide their naked truth. Raw and painful, a bunion of layers that peeled back makes one cry. And so they sit, in oblivion, until pulled up, like a child drowning...the memories never fade. Aware but unaware, the silence is reflected in the shadows. The pain of moving forward so evidently so, yet lost in tranquility as the memories transpose, upon themselves. The days layer on, a line between the reflected cause is all that separates memory from reality. The goal? To align oneself with the mirrored reflection, but it comes with muted determination. The mirror seemingly beckons reality but reality seems a distant memory. They say what has been seen cannot be unseen, but how true that is? Oh how much that statement is so much the root of the problem, yet so rotten to the core. Spreading through the seedy underbelly of life, while life carries on in the most beautiful way, as it can. Sometimes in an environment that seems so harsh to the outsider, survived daily by the inhabitant. This is the reality of oblivion and the reality of being oblivious to the roots that feed and nurture the fire of one's belly.