Bang.
Art was beautiful, and art was reliable. Art was always there, hinting at the edges of vision, waiting to be noticed. Art was time, the essence of time, wrapped and confined into a shape that could wistand all until time itself ran out.
Reality is a curve. But that isn't the problem. The problem is that there isn't enough of it.
Bang.
Art is beautiful and strong, a strong song of beauty that could never fade it didn't matter if many people would see it, it was there and would always be. Art was like the sunset, or even the sunrise. Strung out, beautiful and full of promises. Art was the moon, there all through the night, and a hint in the sky in the day. Art was work, hard laborious work. Delicate spider webs of knowledge strung together and the forceful clunk of a hammer.
Bang.
Art lived in everyone, as the heart that steadily pulsed against the ribcage. The heart is a strong, beautiful bloody thing, painting its pictures inside a creature's body. And the heart is there for all its life, until time itself ran out.
Bang.
Art was not a fleeting moment, there for a second, gone the next leaving one shell-shocked and unable to remember what the art was. Art wasn't a brief shock of colour and explosion that overran the senses, art was something gradual that slowly dissolved the essence of a very soul, art didn't exist to destroy. It was there to be.
Bang.
Art was not ever changing. Art wasn't necessarily immobile, but it knew where it stood and stood there. Watching. Art wasn't speedily molded creations, gone before one could be sure they were finish. Art wasn't something that bubbled and brightened, exploding in a hopeless attempt to leave it's mark on life.
Bang.
Deidara didn't know art. He knew of fleeting moments, grasp by the tip of a finger before disappearing in blast of light, sound and bitter taste. He knew of moments created, but not shared. He knew only of how to destroy the potentially beautiful. He knew of quick death, over so quick one could not see the beauty inside them, pumping their blood out for them to see.
Bang.
Art was careful, and art was secure. Deidara was everywhere, constantly moving, heart nothing more than the tick of a bomb.
Bang.
Deidara was far from art, but in his small picaresque of life, he was… himself. Perhaps a piece of art gone wrong, stumbled away from reality and transforming in on itself, smashing and destroying, with no regard to the glory of what life should be.
Bang.
Deidara was wrong in so many ways, but in so many was he was right. In the most corrupt, impure way of ways Deidara was so right. He fit into Sasori's portrait of life he had so painfully created. He was the destruction; giving reason to protect the art his life was undyingly devoted to. Deidara, for all the wrong reasons, was perfect.
Bang.
Deidara taught him of speed. Of quick beginnings and quick endings. Things so wonderful gone in a flash that left them both breathless. He taught him, although he hadn't meant to, to treasure the lasting impressions of art more. He taught Sasori to long for the raw passion Deidara exhibited.
Bang.
He taught him, in all the wrong ways for all the right reasons, how to breathe.
Bang
Art is everlasting. Art is time compressed into something wonderful that could endure the pain of life until time ran out. Art was something that could ride the curve of reality for as long as it took. Art was permanent, a beauty tattooed onto the earth until the end.
Art was something that would always be there, thumping under one's ribcage. Art was beauty sustained in a silver coffin for all of time. Art would never end.
But life was a fleeting moment, gone before chance for appreciation. Life was potential beauty. Life was a ticking bomb, trying in vain to leave a mark on the world.