Defense Mechanism
Prologue
It couldn't be helped.
The ancient Greeks and Romans believed that an artist's works was never entirely their own. Some would name it divine inspiration, a gift from some doting god above. Zeus himself walking among mortals, fingertips gracing the forehead of Homer, like water to plants and suddenly millions of ideas bloom within this mortal skull. Streaks of oily paint mesh themselves into their skin and the echoes of symphonies yet to be heard embed themselves in their ears. The artist was the tool, not entirely themselves, not entirely alone, they were a doorway. Others called it a genius. A crystal winged fairy that followed the artist wherever it went. Something only they could see. Their breath was theirs; the gossamer touch of their ideas could be felt by no other. The glint of their eyes and the twitch of their hand could only exist as long as the artist lived and breathed. And the Romans believed this, believed in the extension of an artist's soul into something other than colored flesh and crimson blood. A beast that existed within the man, creating smears of life and simultaneously lending itself to their creation. A beautiful idea wouldn't you agree?
It was inevitable.