onehundredsixtynine.

This city, this city of sin used to be home to me, where I fit in so well. Everything dripped of vice and lust. But now, I feel repulsed by it all. As much as I may strive to separate myself from its honey glazed hands, I continue to find myself swimming a midst the decadence. At the times when it tastes so sweet, I can’t help but remember a time when I used to be a part of this painting. And now as I watch it from outside the wooden frame, feelings overwhelm my soul as they begin to resurface. That’s when I catch myself thinking, there really might never be a chance to go back. The simple pleasure of innocence has been lost somewhere in the convoluted tangles of yesterday.

The mountain you’re climbing is not a mountain at all but a gentle slope leading home.