Disclaimer: Naruto isn't mine!
Hmm. So I don't know, this was just like short rambling on my part. Kinda. That's what most of my writing is anyways. But yeah, in any case, I don't think I wrote this very clearly or anything and it's not exactly my best work, but oh well.
Hopefully you'll enjoy it anyways!
There was a time when I believed that everything was beautiful only when stationary, like an insect caught between the tangled sticky web of curving, twisting, patterns in some spider web of time.
But that was then.
When Deidara came along, I think I realized I was wrong.
He always argued with me about the idea of it all; that art, beauty, elegance existed in temporality. You shift with time and watch life explode. It was more like the spider feeding on the insect than the insect's helpless struggle behind a glass cage. It was the extended fang dripping blood, the end of a life, that finality that he called art.
But he was stupid and so was I; art doesn't really mean a thing if no one appreciates it. Value? Griping about the value of some avant-garde work of art that nobody can understand is about as useful as having made a piece of shit. No one really cares.
I don't think we were artists. We were just method actors, playing the parts of struggling artists, begging to find beauty in a world where beauty really didn't exist. I understand that now – art is not a bang, it is not preservation, but it is complete and utter shit. You can't capture art at all. I only realize this now because I'm dying and you know, it really opens the eyes when you see yourself get killed by the things you practically worshipped.
But I suppose it was a good way to go. The struggle. Immortality gets old when you see the same damn face in the mirror every year – you try to punch it out or find anything new but it's just a waste of time. Because you're still there, you're still you and you haven't changed one bit. And for how many years? 10, 20? I'd stopped counting – every morning the face staring back at me never changed. It's not beautiful; it's sick. I think that's what Deidara meant.
In that hollowed out chest I called my own, I knew that I had mistaken beauty for something else – I only realized this after he came along. He'd been, what?, who knew how many years old. Some brat with an obnoxious tuft of piss yellow hair over his eye, shouting and claiming he knew what art was while grunting all the way.
Art is a blast.
Yeah, yeah. I heard that enough during the course of the years I'd spent with him.
Then it started creeping in – this.. new definition of art – but I can't recall the first inklings of it taking over me.
I remember watching him toy with his stupid yellow hair when the strands would reach past his collarbone and he'd moan that he'd have to cut it again. My hand shot out instinctively, tentatively, to graze my own auburn hair. Still the same length. Never changing. I felt something odd stirring in me; was it jealousy or sadness or anger? None? Was that the first tug at my chest, the first shade of understanding a new sort of art?
Real art, I think, was watching his hair grow longer and longer while mine stayed a stubby length, trapped and pounding at the glass case to be let out. Art was seeing him grow taller, aging the way I should've aged, becoming years that I was supposed to be, but never really was.
Art was the slow lowering of his voice, like pitches on a piano steadily decreasing until it hit the right timbre.
It's pathetic, so pathetic what I'm saying.
Because if you read between the lines, I'm dying in the embrace of two of my own creations and blood is dribbling out and bubbling from the only remnant of who I am and I am dying and when I think of art now, I think of Deidara – I think of him and I know that art is in living.
Art is in existence and growing.
How pathetic.
How truly pathetic, the failed method actor in the end, trapped in his glass cage for all to see – marvel in his immortality! – but recognize it as death. The failed method actor, oh sir you took the wrong route, you shouldn't have, you really oughtn't have. But you did. Refused to listen to anyone else, thought you and your goddamn immortality were art forms.
I wonder if Deidara would laugh at the absurdity of it all if he could see me now. He'd play with that stupid piss yellow hair and laugh in that deep voice of his, slinging his adult limbs off that clay bird and watch the failed artist die like he said he never would.
… It's funny how strongly I suddenly wish that my own hair would grow, my own limbs would lengthen, my own voice would deepen.
I guess it's too late now.
AN: DONE! yeah.. it made sense in my head. Maybe not here... who knows? lol
review please if you enjoyed! if not, constructive criticism is happily accepted as well!
On a side note, Sasori is really hard to write and I'm pretty sure I didn't do him any justice at all.
Woops.