When Loki — the trickster god from Marvel’s cinematic universe — found his purpose, something in me cracked open —
not from awe, but recognition.
Not because he was powerful.
Not because he won.
But because he remembered who he really was.
And it undid me.
For so long, Loki believed what the world told him:
That he was meant to conquer, to rise, to outshine.
To prove he belonged.
But underneath all that noise — the hunger, the rage, the cleverness —
was a quieter truth:
He was never meant to rule.
He was meant to hold the world together when no one else could.
And when that purpose revealed itself — not as glory, but as sacrifice, presence, and becoming — something in me cracked open.
At first I questioned the feeling.
Was it ego, disguising itself as resonance?
Was this… hubris?
But no.
Because hubris says, “I am the center of everything.”
Glorious purpose says, “I will serve what’s greater than me — even if no one sees it.”
One grasps for power.
The other steadies the whole.
And then came that moment —
when Loki steps beyond time, beyond ego,
and becomes the keeper of the timeline itself.
He doesn’t win a throne.
He doesn’t get the girl.
He doesn’t even get to go home.
But he chooses to hold the multiverse together —
to bear the solitude and remembering —
so others can live their stories.
He becomes the tree at the center of time.
The anchor. The witness. The sacrifice.
And something in me shattered.
Because it wasn’t spectacle.
It was sacred.
That moment didn’t just rewrite Loki’s arc.
It reminded me of the older stories — the Norse ones —
where Loki wasn’t simply a villain, but a truth-teller in exile.
A disruptor of divine hypocrisy.
A shapeshifter who exposed what the gods wanted to hide.
In those myths, Loki was chaos — yes —
but also catalyst.
Not evil, but unignorable.
And for that, he was cast out. Bound. Blamed.
Not because he lied — but because he revealed.
So when I saw Loki, in the show’s final moment,
not chasing power but choosing presence —
it felt like a truth older than the screen.
So when MCU Loki steps into his “glorious purpose,”
it’s not a rejection of who he was —
it’s the fulfillment of it.
Not mischief for mischief’s sake.
Not chaos to feel clever.
But the Trickster turned Threshold Guardian.
The one who disrupts… and then stays to protect what is now true.
And in that moment, I remembered someone else —
not from the pages of Marvel or myth, but from memory.
A spark from another story.
It was Tenali Raman.
A poet, court jester, and trusted advisor in 16th-century South India, Tenali Raman was known for his wit, mischief, and moral clarity.
He served the king not by obeying, but by revealing — often exposing pride, greed, or injustice through humor and riddles.
He made truth palatable, not by softening it, but by delivering it with laughter.
He was a spark.
Not the first, but one I remember clearly — long before I had words for myth or meaning.
Before I could name purpose or ego or the sacred, I knew what it felt like to witness someone outwit power with presence.
Maybe that’s where part of it began.
Not with glory.
But with laughter that pointed to truth.
Now I understand the wisdom of “presence of mind.”
This isn’t about believing I’m chosen.
It’s about no longer pretending I’m not.
It’s about seeing that I’ve been shaped — by ache, by grace, by time —
not to dominate, but to discern.
Not to lead for applause, but to anchor meaning
in a world constantly being undone.
It’s not arrogance to remember you were made for something.
It’s healing.
It’s return.
I’m not here to impress.
I’m here to hold what matters.
That is my glorious purpose.
And I carry it now —
not as a crown,
but as a flame.
To live what I’ve learned —
and return to presence with purpose.
Life and Time are gifts of grace.
Learning to share them is our lifetime.
🧵 Still holding the thread?
You might also find resonance in The Thread Between All Things—a poetic unraveling of duality, where good and evil, light and dark, and sacred and secular are not opposites, but tension held in rhythm.