fable

Who graces his presence;

His beauty,

His tricks,

Oh how bewitched i am with his antics;

He who made my hands act with mischief,

Who picked the shards of my heart and constructed a weapon of love and trickery.

Loki,

Continue writing about them, please keep saying their names. Please keep worshiping them. If you can’t find the strength within yourself to live for yourself, please try to live for them.

I know it’s getting scary. I think it’s going to get scarier. But please, if nothing else. Live.

Thousands of years, hundreds of genocides and crusades and decimation of culture, and yet somehow my Lords still have followers. Somehow I’ve found them. Somehow these names still have meaning. Through all of us they still remain.

Despite the efforts of centuries of suppression and control, My Lord is still alive, because I am alive.

In our fringe little cults, even when we must whisper because we cannot scream.

and maybe one day we’ll be free to frolic in fields or dance in forests while we chant without fear.

They know every single one of your flaws and they still love you.

They have seen every one of your mistakes and they still love you.

They have loved you through every failed relationship, every bad job, every moment you are not proud of. They do not feel betrayed by you, and they do not expect you to condemn yourself forever for things you have done.

The Gods know humanity, and they know we are not perfect. Never once have they expected you to be flawless.

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