Free Builder

Has my heart grown so faint that I now doubt my ability to construe meaning from the endless chaos? What is there to fear from there? That I will create the wrong thing? Extract and accentuate the improper details? There can be no impropriety. I am the shaper of worlds, trembling with the fear of my own power. Noise momentarily organizes into something we call music and then it flees back into the abyss like a flight of edgy birds. All of the scattered flecks of magnetic dust gather again and dance to the electric demand before they scatter once more to a fine powder. Even my mind momentarily takes shape, becomes a force and then returns to the maelstrom as a ghost and I wander sleeping through the land of the dead. Temporary forms rise from the eternal chaos, the great roar of the beastly mother of infinite night.
We must become magnets ourselves if we wish to bend the dust, our own dust, to our own will. Aye, what is the will but a center of gravity? Magic is the science of propulsion. Didn’t Jack Parsons spend his time launching rockets in the desert when he wasn’t fucking his mother or their dog? All semblance of sanity may disintegrate as the heat rises. The heat is the fuel that powers our little psychic meat rockets. Intense heat brought on by sleep deprivation, sexual deviation, shock, and something else that I can’t remember now. You may well fear what you will become, what you may create.
We depart from familiar shores, and find that it was our homeland that made us who we seemed to be, our island that we identified with, and now launched as we are into the thrashing seas as explorers, adventurers, and creators, we cannot know what we will become. There is no longer a point of reference. We are at the center, and from our pulsing heart, lines are drawn of radiant heat extending in every direction. It is then, when you are crucified by these infinite shining points, that you come to understand that there is no point at all.
It is a little known fact that pirates were often freemasons, not just criminals, not just adventurers, but free builders as well, cruising the endless sea brimming with Eris’s prized pets, monsters of unimaginable proportions, titans that had to be locked away in Tartarus so that order and civilization could come to fruition upon the scalding cracked earth.
I can do no wrong here, kneading and twisting the nothingness to my whim like a child manipulating clay. It is no fault of mine that there is red clay as well as blue. I cannot help but mingle them until there is purple, thus sealing my fate as a heretic. If the shapes I call forth from the fertile possibility are monstrous, then so be it. From the perspective of the limitless, unbound, raw blob they are as beautiful as any other creation. Who am I to judge one random mix against another? I am just a shape myself which may be attracted or repelled by configurations more or less, (even far less) alike to my own.
I remind myself of the words of the puck:

"If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber'd here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,"

Yes a dream, sprung from the unending river of the unconscious, ever running just beneath the surface. A road to the underworld, a convenient place to tuck those thing which do exist, but which we find offensive to our own configuration. An outflow channel to allow some of our infinite nature to run off so that we do not explode with the madness, the fervor, the nectar of the real, like crazed maenads in the wild wood. A shadow to give us definition and three dimensional "depth". A hiding place for the weak hearted.