Am I

My wife has said to me several times - she said it again last night - that artists are intrinsically selfish. Essentially the greater you are, the more self-absorbed you become - the more deeply you set yourself against the world you suspect will never understand you.

I'd like to think this doesn't describe me - but then, I can't call myself great. I'd like to think that such an attitude is impossible for a writer. A painter, perhaps, can afford to despise the world. A writer will dry up.

But I understand the frustration with everyone and everything. I understand the not being understood. I understand the perpetual self-reflection - the endless asking, "Am I?"

Is it the very opposite of God, who says "I Am", to ask this question? Or is it one of the deep wells of our nature that draws us into the arms of the answer?