The room had to noise, no sights, no smells, no touch.

It had four walls. It was white. And aside from the note gripped tightly in her hand... that was all there was to it.

You've been banned from exsistence, was written in red all over the white.

"You've got to be kidding me," she found herself saying out loud.

Not dead. Not kidnapped. Banned. From exsistence itself, no less.

Unless someone was playing tricks. Unless someone was lying.

It would have been so much easier to figure out what she's done - or hasn't done - to get herself into this nothingness if she knew who she was.

Which she didn't.

Because her mind, it seemed, was as blank and as white as every other aspect of this place she woke up in.

She sat down on the floor in a daze, hugging her knees to her chest.

What now? A voice seemed to whisper in her head.

She got the sense she wasn't the type of girl to sit around in mindless pondering. But then again she didn't know who she was.

Doesn't matter, whispered the voice. Find him.

"Find who?" She asked out loud, but the voice faded away.

She was alone again. All alone in the white.

Taking a deep breathe, she got up. This was pointless, but she'll be dammed if she just gave up.

A kind of knowing that seemed to come from deep within told her that if she didn't try, if she didn't get up and fought whatever it was, she would fade away... alone, forgotten.

And that was simply unacceptable.

She decided she was not that type of girl.

Note: I've meant for it to be longer, but I got stuck so I cut it in the middle '^^

“Books are precious things, but more than that, they are the strong backbone of civilization. They are the thread upon which it all hangs, and they can save us when all else is lost.” – Louis L'amour

I hugged the book to my chest, my knees buckling under me as I fell to the floor.

Dylan is gone. He's really gone. The realization shreded my heart into so many pieces, leaving me bleeding on the floor in the most inhuman pain someone could ever experience. My chest was so tight I could hardly draw breath as the tears kept choking me from the inside out.

I was dead, but Dylan was gone.

The gray clouds fogging my brain ever since that day on the cliff scattered in the wind. I made a sound somewhere between a scream and a sob, my mind filled with all the things I denied, all the things I couldn't handle, all the things I can't handle. There was only one thought in my head, nothing else even mattered anymore.

He's gone.

I stopped breathing…

He's gone.

Black spots, forming in my vision…

He's gone.

I'm falling…

He's gone.

I'm clinging desperately to the book, can't let go, can't let it fall, not like…

Dylan.

He's gone.

Darkness.

Note: To put some perspective over what is happening here... this is a short piece from a story I'm working on. It's a fantasy story about a girl who dies and goes to the "in between", where she - along with the others stuck there - must prove themselves worthy of heaven... or hell.

Looking outside her bedroom window, the girl sight in obvious exasperation.

This was nothing knew, just diappointing.

The country she lived in, you see, had no actual Fall.

Not like the kind you see in movies, TV shows, even anime.

Not like the kind you see when you google 'Fall' in google images.

Despite the fact that it was obviously Fall time, everything was still smoldering hot. Like the weather was still stuck on Summer (as it often was, in this place where she lived).

As a person who loved the cold, the colors, the wind, the rain, the girl hated this non-fall time.

All she could do was wait - and hope - for the Winter to come.

Winter is coming, isn't it?

But oh, how she wished... how she wished she could witness a real Fall.

With the leaves, and the wind, and the colors, and everything in between.

Sighing again, the girl left the window - filled with broken wishes - and went back to write.

At least she still had her imagination left.

And that was more than enough.

Poetry, like stories, like words weaved with magic,

is not something you think about,

is not something you learn,

is not something where rules apply.

It's a freedom like no other.

Because unlike the pressure of writing a story,

and reading a book,

and wanting it to be perfect, wonderful, funny, interesting, simply the best...

poerty can be anything you want it to be.

It could fly, or it can land.

It could reach, or it can draw.

It could be happy, it can be sad.

It could even rhythm, if you'd like.

It comes out of nowhere,

and if fills up the pages.

And before you know it,

you already have a full poem.

I'll be frank, I'll admit,

poetry is not an easy thing to like/love/understand.

There are all kinds of ways, all kinds of stories, all kinds of authors.

Even I,

did not like/love/understand poetry once.

But when it happens to you...

When you suddenly crave it...

love it...

like it...

understand it...

It's like a literary explosion in you head.

And that's all there really is to it.