Desires and knowledge blossom inside me. Thoughts. Things. Their wanting. And how to fulfill them.

  I need no teachers. Knowledge begins with me. It is mine. No source but me.

  I wish for land. I make it.

  The motes of potential aggregate. Golden sand springs from their joining. Then golden rock from the grains. An island is formed. It floats in the sky, cradled by the clouds.

  Joy. I have created a new thing.

  Creation empowers me. It surges. It feeds. My being is nourished. It is right.

  Joy. My Purpose. The one and only.

  I pause. A conundrum. All must be me. But creation is opposite. Multiplicity. Movement. Chaos.

  Fear. Deeper. Terror. A spike of ice through my Core.

  I am Creation. But I am One as well. Am I Paradox? I wouldn’t survive it.

  In dread, I look. The island is my creation. My blood runs through it. My soul is its soul. My flesh is its flesh. It’s Golden. It is me.

  There is no Paradox. I create. I expand. More of me. No multiplicity. Only me.

  Relief.

  I pat the land. It is good. But it is small. By comparison, the Sky is large. It taunts me with its Otherness.

  My desire is rekindled. I labor.

  An age of work passes.

  Creation empowers me. I grow. More of me.

  I stop my labor. I look at myself.

  Brightness coats my golden skin. It swathes me in a radiant hue. I see beyond. What I can. What I am.

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  Me. My skills. My being.

  A new thing. Sinking. Disappointment.

  So few. I wish to be more. Higher. Greater. More.

  I thirst.

  But I am already more.

  Choices for my growth. Deeply important.

  My Creation. The first choice. But I hesitate. My work is in its infancy. No need for more materials. Yet.

  The endless Otherness unnerves me. I wish for power against it. Against danger. But the choice is harsh.

  I need to think. I take my gaze away from myself.

  My wish is for familiarity. I look upon my work.

  The island has grown. It takes me forty-eight steps now to cross. It’s primordial, unformed. A lump of flowing golden sand and liquid rock.

  I build a small hovel at the center of the island. Built and shaped out of unformed sand and rock. I create. I am an artisan. A painter. A musician. A poet. A smith. This the home of me who creates.

  My workshop.

  I smile. Home. It pleases me.

  Doors are pointless. I pass a naked threshold. A room of smooth corners and imprecision welcomes me. Rough. But I am an apprentice yet. It will be better.

  My table, the place of my creation. It emerges from the floor. It’s part of it. I need nothing else.

  I spread my arms over it. Push my chest against it. Lay my cheek against it. Materia smells of comfort and known. Me. Me. Me.

  It is good. It is right. I will have the whole sky painted with it.

  Multiplicity is wrong. It offends me. Chaos. Movement. Noise. Pointlessness. Waste. No. All must be one. Me. It will be silent. It will be motionless. It will be beautiful. Geometric. Perfection.

  I pass my hands on the cool surface. I can feel myself grow, my thoughts flowing smoother and faster. Ideas float before me, projects, visions of great works that will cover that grand sky and make it Me.

  There will be resistance, I know. That grand sky is too large for me to be alone in it. But I will be ready. The Other will be quelled. All will be subsumed.

  All. Until only Me remains.

  My wish is strong. And I have all of eternity to make it real.