Writers and artists are often accused of self-centeredness and yet, in their eyes, what they commune with when they shut out from others is not themselves but an entity they are constantly seducing, battling, interpreting. Another human who cannot see this entity only sees one person in their field of vision - an aloof individual in a state of consistent, contrived obsession, like a bee shaken up in a jar, possessed by the burden of an invisible, pushy impulse. If you call an artist or writer self-centered, they will give you a perplexed, defeated look. They will not understand, as they often yearn to be closer to the self in all of its maintenance and tangible pleasures. In their head, they have been toiling away in service to another being their entire lives. Feeling as if they are in a constant state of sacrifice, it is not the self that lays in the center of their reality, but a demanding, spectral visitor latched onto a host.