Winds of Uranus

Ah, the narcissist who calls themselves an “intellectual.” Always polished, always sophisticated, forever reading—but only what can be weaponized or displayed at cocktail parties.

Then one day: a book. Not a textbook, not a manifesto, not something to flaunt. A real, messy, liberating self-love journey written by an empathic minority. A text dripping with authenticity and courage.

The narcissist opens it. Skims a paragraph. And immediately: “Self-indulgent.”

Of course. Vulnerability? Complexity of feeling? Self-reflection? Too much. Too human. Too threatening to the delicate architecture of their curated persona.

They do not grasp it. They cannot. Empathic liberation is alien. Freedom smells like chaos. Feeling without control? Unthinkable. So, they dismiss it, label it, slam the book shut. Intellectual conquest maintained. Ego safe.

Meanwhile… the empath’s words do their work anyway. Every eye-roll, every sneer, every sarcastic margin note is unknowingly feeding the liberation energy they cannot contain. The narcissist becomes a secret amplifier of what they claim to despise. Cosmic irony: maximum resistance, maximum spread.

In the end, the book thrives. The narcissist? Still calling it “self-indulgent” while its power radiates—right under their meticulously coiffed nose.