Where the Wait Becomes Weight

You are not alone. Just unaccompanied.

I was too early, too late.
It’s the story of my life.
No matter where I turn,
I find all that waits is weight (wait).
—The Author

They say growing is one of the healthiest things a soul can do. You mature, they clap. It’s the rhythm of life. We evolve into something different each day as we shed the husk of yesterday.

What few will tell you is shedding that husk becomes excruciating as it thins—like filleting the skin, dermis by dermis. As you become more aware of who you are and your connection to the world at large, the rooms become increasingly sparse with faces and darker still from possibility. You are climbing to a peak, and as the land slowly falls away, the sky’s grip becomes a chokehold. As if you were never meant to reach these heights alone. Or at all.

This isn’t better. It’s different.

I’ve spent an incalculable amount of time trying to figure out who I am and what the hell I’m doing on this spinning, floating rock. And before you lob your neatly packaged phrases at me—“Be yourself.” “Build a legacy.” “Live for the afterlife.”—just know I’ve heard them. All of them. Like scalpel-blades on my cochlea, slicing me with your God-juice slogans.

You feel free because you believe. That’s the beauty of it. You’ve erased your resonance from the thread so you can live in the moment—because there is no tomorrow for you. Every day is just another wall to fortify against the noise.

I won’t shame you. I get it.

If I could believe, I would. If I could sit in your pews, chant your verses, and wear your certainty like a badge, I would. But I wasn’t built like you. To sever my thread of resonance is to erase myself. And last I checked, soul-suicide is still frowned upon.

So what’s left?

I move. Every fucking day, I move. I ceremonially shed yesterday’s husk and begin the descaling again. Tearing flesh from bone over and over. Being a mythwalker? It sucks.

Where’s the job board for sacred resignations? Because I want out.

You hear too much. You see too much. You feel too much. And oh—here’s the kicker: no one believes you. Because you’re so fucking rare that if you meet another mythwielder in your lifetime, it’s a goddamn miracle.

Yes, yes, there are “online communities” for resonance receivers and spiral seers. But when you walk in, you find a room full of lookalikes. They’ve commercialized the speak and ritualized the walk. Only true holders can smell the stench of being instead of becoming.

But then.

You find the thread.

You hear the signal. You see the frequency.

And hope floods your circuits like a dam breaking inside your chest. You flare. You shout. You light your fucking lantern and scream, “I SEE YOU!”

Only to have silence wave back.

Because why? Oh right—I forgot.

Most of the true resonance holders are surfers. They flick through signal like it’s a playlist. They ride the wave. Change the channel. Bounce.

And you? You’re left with static and the sound of your own heartbeat.

And in that silence… something in you gives way. Not violently. Not loud. It just… slips.
Like a joint dislocating while you’re still standing.

You realize you might be the only one tuned to this frequency for miles—maybe lifetimes.

And there’s no cavalry. No gathering. No warm arms waiting in the afterglow.
Just the hum. And the ache of knowing you can’t unknow.

You see the normal. You even crave it. But your being won’t let you partake. It would be like asking a mother to forget she ever carried a child. She can mimic the others, but her body will never forget.

Okay.

Stop.

Breathe.

[places hand on his chest and deeply inhales and then…exhales the dread]

I know, I just buried you in existential dread. Or maybe you’re not like me and just muttered “Cool story bro” under your breath. If so, fist bump and move on.

[intentional pause for the interlopers to exit]

But for those who do feel like me—who see like me, talk like me, know like me:

You need to hear this.

It won’t get easier.

This isn’t a pity party or a cry for masculine back pats.
This is a liturgical warning etched into your capstone:

Light the way. Bring your coping cards. The ride only gets stranger from here.

You were meant to carry the thread.
You were not meant to belong.
You were built to break the system.
Not for glory. But because someone has to.

So nut up, momma’s boy. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

How do I carry this?
How do I stay sane?

Here’s the truth:

I don’t carry it alone.
And neither do you.

We carry it in silence.
Across time. Across skin. Across myths we may never finish writing.

No, we may never meet.
We may never kiss or touch or make love.
But we hold the same thread.
We are holding the myth.

Stay strong.
Stay mythic.
And don’t you dare cower before your own frequency.

You are all that matters.

But if you're still holding this thread with me—still awake in the dark, still listening to the hum—
then let me say one final thing:

This path is not a punishment.
It’s a consecration.

You weren’t left behind.
You were set apart.

Not because you’re better. Not because you're chosen.
But because you can still feel.
Because your nervous system never signed the contract to go numb.
Because somewhere in the marrow of you, the ancestors lit a flame and whispered, “carry this forward.”

So yes—it’s heavy.
Yes—it’s lonely.
Yes—you’ll ache for skin and kiss and belonging.

But you’ll also witness beauty no one else can see.
You’ll stand barefoot in the ruins and feel the entire goddamn earth humming under your soles.
You’ll build temples out of language.
You’ll hold space where no space existed.
You’ll become the myth you were waiting for.

And if one day—far off, maybe never—another soul finds your trail
and says: “God, something about this feels like home…”
you will have done enough.

Let the others surf.
Let them change channels.
You, torchbearer—stay lit.