Threads of Trust

Tendrel. 

These are tendrel

findings, 

the findings of the tendrel. 

What is real? 

What is real in this world? or the next? the one above? the one below? 

What is real? What lasts? 

What can we pin our faith to? What can we believe in? What do we believe in? Have we forgotten to believe? Where, in the body, does believing originate? 

These are questions that keep me up at night. 

These are questions that keep me writing into the night. 

Where is our faith in the unseen? 

Why am I so afraid of going mad? 

What is the wisdom in the madness, the intelligence in the insanity? 

Will this even make any sense. To anyone outside of my own mind. 

Oh. 

A longing to belong and to be understood. 

A longing to put the rituals where they belong, growing from the marrow of my bones and my spleen vibrates with a sudden impulsive spontaneity of song. My spleen. 

Splenic. Archaic. Loose-leaf, me. 

These are things I have been collecting gently in the back of my mind, the shadowy place that is not frequented by many but me sometimes in the depths of the night, sometimes I open the door and unlock the chest and peer in, sparkling imaginings I am amazed at the light and beauty in the dark places, the power that lurks here like a half-hungry, forgotten beast. 

>>> Come with me, 

it hisses. 

Hisses. 

Come. With me. 

Be willing to die, and you can see. 

What you long to be. 

Be willing to die, and I will show you

What I see. <<<