smooth(gray)plains

There is a feeling that I call a memory that when I once pondered with pen and page (oh so long ago), I found myself places, in worlds deep and loud, and all too easily did I relate these experiences. They were worlds I could taste. I grabbed handfuls and armfuls of sweet scenery and pungent smells, tangible textures and bright melodies, and threw them upon a page in a desparate frenzy. For a while I found I was in a place of neither cold steel walls, nor warm green hills, but only smooth gray plains that dissolve into a frictionless sky (and silence). The words were merely words (heavy). However, now a smile glides across my face. Silence is broken. My eyes close. I can hear a deep rumbling of heavy waters. The words are becoming lighter. I will soon be swept off once again to Whocareswhere. The words are becoming worlds.