today.

they tell me my problem is that i can't see past the present. i long to tell them they don't understand life. why should i plan for a future that isn't certain to exist - that in all reality may not exist tomorrow. why not plan simply for the day i'm living. the best laid plans are liable to go awry, and planning gives them time to plot. they tell me i'm being paranoid, unrealistic, but thoughts tend to have a life of their own and i can't pretend that they don't. words are everywhere and they surprise me with their viciousness and their unpredictable nature. they do not correspond to emotions, do not bend to my will, and i find them on the page with no intention of mine pushing them there. i can't help this fact, the words that spill from my mouth or pen in order to attack or eulogize the world at large. drama is the charm of life, but i'm so tired of it. living day to day you lose the sordid desire to dramatise every second of your life, but when it's inflicted upon you there will always be the urge to participate. so my advice is plan only for today, live only for today, and let tomorrow form itself without panic. it's the only way to live, and surely the only way to die.

i wish when i was her age somebody had given me the best advice i could give now - that life does go on, no matter how impossible that seems at the time. for every moment she'll wish time could stop, that she thinks she can't get through it, there will be a realisation that nothing is ever as overwhelming as the moment you're experiencing it. time has become cliched because everything they say about it is true - everything, no matter how important it was at the time, fades when enough of it has passed. like right now she thinks that not being one of the popular kids is the end of the world. i want to hold her tight - if that would be the end of her problems her life would be blissful, but it's only the beginning. high school is a microcosm of real life, with everything amplified and no time frame to console yourself with.

i remember thinking that if i didn't get out of my home town i would die - how melodramatic i was, but i can only see that from a distance. at the time i swore that i would make it out no matter the cost, and so i did. maybe it's only right that we don't know that life will go on regardless - if i'd thought that life would continue whether i got out or not i would've shot myself then and there. once again i sound melodramatic, but i truly mean it - something greater than customer service and minimum wage runs in my veins. billie once told me that the first step to greatness is wanting to want more than you have - and i've wanted that since i was a child.

it also says everything necessary about my life. for all the moments i wasted wishing time could go backwards, or leap forwards, or stay exactly as it was then, i could have done so much more. i think that's why i have so much trouble living in the present - because i want something that's far beyond my reach. when i look back at who i was i'm glad that time is always moving forward, i couldn't be that girl again. but while time always goes on, dreams do not - and i think that's what i'd tell her now. dream as big as you're able, because everyone needs a dream.

i am a dreamless dreamer and it's killing me.

Lost.

She stands shivering next to a wide expanse of road. She'd had to get off of the bus, needed something to draw her back from the precipice she was standing at the edge of, and for some reason she'd thought the cool night air would do it. Now she's less concerned about the mess her life currently consists of than the fact that she's left her jacket and lighter inside.

Where they've stopped, miles from anywhere, is kind of comforting though.

She fights a sudden urge to run. Running won't help, it hasn't for the rest of her life, but the impulse is so deeply ingrained within her that it takes real effort to ignore it. Instead she leans back against the bus and tries to order her thoughts. Unfortunately, she has as much luck with doing that as suppressing the desire to leave. Everything remains resolutely chaotic, flashes of what happened, what could have happened, and what could still happen emerging from the recesses of her mind to taunt her.

These thoughts have her so tightly tangled in a web that she never hears him approach. "Bea, we've got to go," he says offhandedly, letting no hint of emotion creep in to his tone. He knows just as well as she does how fatal that could be. She nods, not trusting herself to reply to him. As she turns to go back inside she catches him watching her, and for a second they stand trapped in time. He moves instinctively towards her, and that's what breaks her out of her reverie. She walks past him and through the door - never looking back.

Art.

The police report said she'd pulled seven cons. "Works of art," she'd responded, exhaling a cloud of cigarette smoke as she did so, "Con sounds so... cheap." Whatever else you could say about Courtney Banks, she never did anything cheap. Each of her projects was elaborately constructed, preying on the decadence and hedonism of New York's elite.

Her gift was making them feel valued for something other than their bank balances, injecting a little reality into their lives. "There's nothing more attractive to those over privileged morons than a little carefully constructed reality," she'd explained to the rookie policeman they'd sent to guard her hotel room, and he'd nodded eagerly. Personally, he'd cheered her on as the reports came in of massive losses suffered by the most self righteous pricks in the city - they deserved all they got in his opinion. He could tell that she felt the same way about them from her dismissive tone, so he voiced his thoughts. Courtney's eyes lit up as he spoke, excited to have found a like minded spirit, and that spurred him on. "Darling, I couldn't agree more. The corruption in this city breaks my damn heart - it means honest cops like you can't touch the real bad guys. As I see it, that's where I come in."

The rookie was so caught up in her explanation of her work that he never even noticed the room key slipped from his pocket.

Even as he stood later on her words resonated in him, driving him to wonder exactly how he could help. The appearance of an old maid hunched over her cleaning trolley on what was supposed to be a secure floor broke into his reverie, and he told her sharply to leave, surprised at the level of incompetence of his colleagues.

Resuming his post on the door, he was unaware he was guarding an empty room, the only sign that someone had once been in the lingering scent of perfume and a cigarette butt smouldering in an ashtray. By the time he realised his mistake, Courtney would be on a plane, glass of champagne in hand and maid's costume safely stored in a locker at JFK.

Another work of art complete.