FIC
I wrote some abnormally up-itself (even by my standards) Deidara fic.
Title: Nearly True
Rating: PG I guess
Warnings: really really pretentious
Length: 275
Characters: Deidara
Summary: Deidara is self-deluding.
In his world he is invincible. He is energy; he is power; he is light and exuberance and youth; he is beauty and nothing will stop him until the day he says, here I will stop, and the stopping will be more beautiful even than the bright symphony of his life.
No-one else sees it, and in his world he is only proud to be so special that no mundane sight perceives his brilliance, and yet at once the earth that ties his feet to the ground yearns for some other eyes to look upon him and see what he wishes was there. But he blasts it aside, takes wing, because in his world there is no blood in his veins but fire and clay, and nothing must surround him but the sky.
He does not see what others do - he does not see his own desperation, or his fear. He does not see that even as he rides the wind his feet are still planted on earth. He only sees what he wants to be, and still he does not stop until the day he says, here I will stop, and he goes out laughing as the bomb tears through everything that makes up what he is, what he wishes that he wasn't, burning away the honest human things that prevented him from being what he convinced himself that he was.
In his final moment all he thinks is, I am transcendent; I am art; there is nothing more to me than fire and light. And, for a split second, for the first and last time in his life, it is very nearly true.
Title: Nearly True
Rating: PG I guess
Warnings: really really pretentious
Length: 275
Characters: Deidara
Summary: Deidara is self-deluding.
In his world he is invincible. He is energy; he is power; he is light and exuberance and youth; he is beauty and nothing will stop him until the day he says, here I will stop, and the stopping will be more beautiful even than the bright symphony of his life.
No-one else sees it, and in his world he is only proud to be so special that no mundane sight perceives his brilliance, and yet at once the earth that ties his feet to the ground yearns for some other eyes to look upon him and see what he wishes was there. But he blasts it aside, takes wing, because in his world there is no blood in his veins but fire and clay, and nothing must surround him but the sky.
He does not see what others do - he does not see his own desperation, or his fear. He does not see that even as he rides the wind his feet are still planted on earth. He only sees what he wants to be, and still he does not stop until the day he says, here I will stop, and he goes out laughing as the bomb tears through everything that makes up what he is, what he wishes that he wasn't, burning away the honest human things that prevented him from being what he convinced himself that he was.
In his final moment all he thinks is, I am transcendent; I am art; there is nothing more to me than fire and light. And, for a split second, for the first and last time in his life, it is very nearly true.