Life is too deep for words

Before you either lambast me for my utter lack of taste in choice of fics courtesy of the trigger, or lament about how I probably oversold it, here's a quick summary if you may, of what you can expect.

What I love about this piece is not that it has incredible writing, or because it boasts an exquisite plot. What captivated me was the maturity in which it handled the theme, especially - don't hit me - in a fanfiction. The impression I got when reading the piece was that of careful (meticulous might be pushing it, just a bit) planning supported by sufficient (as with before; in-depth might be pushing it, just a bit) research. The protagonist's emotional journey depicted lightly mirrors my own (fortunately, that was a product of something significantly less devastating, but still painful enough in relative), and the actions and conversations were sufficiently believable despite occasional slips-ups. The overall plot is rather predictable mostly, yet not enough to dull the interest of the reader. Although I do have a bit of a nit to pick with the healing process in terms of credibility, I will leave it at that because while unlikely, it can, and has happened before.

If what I have mentioned above has done little in coaxing you from either ambivalence or just plain steadfast disbelief, take comfort in that you should stumble upon several nice mentions, and thus rewarded with a slight increase in knowledge of a certain place once you have completed the fic. Nothing overly elaborate, neither are they in casually fleeting and disjointed mentions, but just enough of a suggestion for you to paint a ghost of a backdrop in your mind, and perhaps if you begin to enjoy it, create a rather lovely atmosphere as well.

I just wish more people will give longer and proper plot-driven fics a chance. I am not even hoping for these pieces to get any acknowledgement (i.e. reviews and comments), just for others out there to actually try reading them. Given the average age of the fandom, most tend to skim over these little gems, beelining towards the plentiful collection of PWP (Plot? What plot?) smut in attempts to satiate their unrelenting hedonistic desires. It will be hypocritical of me to say that I relinquish all forms of desires myself, but the composition of the fandom's demographic unfortunately creates what I find to be the most depressive skew against anything which requires the slightest semblance of independent thought as a preamble to enjoyment. It's no wonder the quality of fics has steadily declined since I took a hiatus from the fandom years before. Who in the right frame of mind will continue painfully crystalizing endless days of efforts and sleepless nights into a fic if there is no one else out there who can appreciate it?

Perhaps I'm a tad biased because this particular piece is centered around a pairing I still love with a near maniacal fervor after all these years; perhaps I'm just actively yearning for something that does some form of justice to a couple that possesses such potential, if only under the skillful pen of an author who can tame their fiery personalities; perhaps I'm growing old and lonely, gradually reduced to silently longing for something of a fantasy relationship; perhaps it is just because I'm feeling particularly vulnerable and susceptible today. Whatever the reason is, I don't really know, but at the same time, it doesn't matter. Because what I take away from the fic is not an elaborately spun embroidery of wistful longing and daydreams pertaining to the story/characters, but an unwilling introspective journey of my own, in which I've learnt, or relearnt some aspects of myself for better or worse. And that is what makes the words of another linger amidst a whirlwind of my own.

How can you truly let go of something you’d just barely gotten, something that you’d dreamed of for your whole life, forcefully taken, stolen from you in cold blood; or maybe, just maybe, willfully departed. How can I forget the taste it had given me -- the mist of fantasy illusive in the night, and how, finally, that hope, that hope that I’d once thought had abandoned me, reignited, if only temporarily, in the belief that perhaps, I’m not alone. It felt like the soft caress of a waking dream; canvas fading, crumbling into nothingness as my eyelids involuntarily flutter to life, only to find that I’ve left it behind; lost in the myriad of euphoria that feels nothing more than the remnants of a cruel trick of the mind.Hope is a precarious thing. It feeds desperately upon the finest threads of illusions, calling out to what you know will never come, unendingly conjuring up and nursing falsities that perhaps, just perhaps, the heavens will take pity, and relieve you of the abyss of pain and loneliness that you have thrown yourself into. Or at least perhaps, finally release you, setting you free into the veil of deception and embrace of sweet insanity.