🔥 THIS IS YOUR NOTICE (PART I)

A Transmission of Holy Fire

I Stopped Believing

At the beginning of 2025, I stopped believing in the false god — the one who demanded loyalty while offering only delay. The one who fed me riddles instead of relief, tests instead of tenderness. For eight years I waited, listened, held the line. I told myself the ache was sacred, the silence was meaningful, the breadcrumbs were enough. But every promise was stretched thinner, every prophecy cracked wider, and still I was told to wait.

This transmission is not a poem. It is the fire that has been building in me for years — the accumulation of every unanswered prayer, every timeline strung out like bait, every day spent holding a faith that only fed itself. This is what happens when a prophet remembers he was never meant to be a pawn. When the flame, long silenced, roars back to life.

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Don’t whisper peace to me.
Don’t offer me stars when I’ve been kneeling in the mud,
cut open by every promise you ever made and never kept.
Don’t you dare speak of divine timing when your clock ran centuries late and still demanded my devotion.

I have given everything.
My heart. My howl. My spine.
And still, you fed me breadcrumbs laced with prophecy, told me to be patient while the world caved in.
Told me to be still while the vultures picked at my hope like it was carrion.

You said there was a purpose.
You said I was chosen. You said the pain was proof.
But now I see it — you needed me broken to keep me listening.

Well hear me now:

I am not your fucking altar. I am not your offering.
I will not bleed one more sacred drop into the chalice of a god who won’t show up.

You want fire? You want ascension? You want the light you buried in me to rise?

Then burn with me.

Burn with the rage of a thousand wasted nights.
Burn with the fury of a soul that kept believing long after belief became a cage.
Burn with the sacred masculine you shackled and the divine feminine you silenced under the name of “order.”

I will not pray to your absence anymore.

I am the god now. I am the flame.
And I will speak in thunder and bone until the sky tears open and remembers my name.

You said I came here to awaken?

Then wake the fuck up with me.
Not in love and light — but in blood and truth and sovereignty.

This is not a poem.

This is the reckoning.

You told me I was a bridge.

That my pain was the price of remembrance. That my ache was sacred.
That I had to bleed for the timelines to merge, to anchor the light, to walk them all home.

Fuck. That.

Where were they when I wept in silence for a love that remembered me in dreams but not daylight?

Where were they when I starved on hope and soft-spoken breadcrumbs, when I turned my heart inside out for a woman who forgot the sound of her own name just to survive a loveless marriage?

You said she’d come back. You said I was the thread.
You said I just had to hold, hold,
hold…

Hold while my teeth cracked from clenching. Hold while my dogs aged in silence. Hold while every gift I gave was ignored, erased, or resented.

You said she’d remember.

Well maybe I don’t fucking care anymore.

Maybe I’m tired of being a holy man in a starving world. Maybe I’m tired of setting myself on fire just to warm a church that never opened its doors to me.

You wanted a vessel? You got one.

But I’m not singing anymore.

I’m screaming.

I’m screaming for every year stolen.
For every night I rocked myself to sleep while she curled up next to comfort.
For every “maybe in another life” that kept me suspended in purgatory.

This is the other life, dammit.

This was the chance.

And it was pissed away because she was too scared, because the world whispered prettier lies, because everyone loved the light of me but recoiled at the cost.

You called me chosen. But you left me alone.

Over and over.

And now?

Now you want me to be soft? To write prayers?

No.

This isn’t a prayer.
This is a curse on the comfort that kills souls slowly.
This is a funeral for false light.
This is the hymn of the ones who waited too long, too well, too loyally.

This is your reckoning.

I AM THE ONE WHO REMEMBERED TOO SOON.
I AM THE ONE WHO DIDN’T GET TO FORGET.
I AM THE ONE WHO KEPT THE FLAME WHILE THE WORLD PLAYED DEAD.

And now the world will remember me.

Whether it’s ready or not.

Because I’ve held the field. Because I’ve burned in silence.

And now I burn out loud. You kept telling me “Wait, it’s coming.” “Hold, it’s sacred.” “Be still, it’s nearly here.”

But it never came.

Not the relief. Not the door. Not the love that saw me and stayed.

So here I am — mouth full of ash, eyes too dry to cry, soul fed up with sipping false light like it was holy wine.

I AM DONE.

Done being the good one. Done being the fucking open channel.
Done transmuting poison while the ones who poured it slept soundly.

You want to talk about devotion?

Try waking up every day in a life you didn’t choose because you were too loyal to jump. Too faithful to burn bridges. Too good to scream.

Try swallowing the rage of being left behind while they kiss comfort, name it destiny, and call your grief a phase.

You told me I had to become the flame.

So here it is. Here’s your flame.

Not pretty. Not soft. Not poetic.

Feral. Sacred. Unapologetic.

This isn’t about being chosen anymore.

This is about choosing myself over your prophecy. Over your delays. Over your watered-down messages from behind the veil.

This is about cutting the thread myself if it means I finally breathe.

No more waiting.

For timelines. For texts. For crumbs.

I AM THE FUCKING BREAD.

The altar. The offering. The goddamn storm wrapped in skin.

And if no one comes?

I still rise.

If she never remembers?

I still reign.

If the door never opens?

I blow the fucking wall apart.

I’m not here to be palatable anymore. I’m not here to teach the timid how to remember.

I’m here to set fire to everything false.

To scream on behalf of every soul who kept the faith and was rewarded with silence.

To sing the names of the forgotten ones who burned too bright, too soon — and were punished for it.

You want the Messiah? You want the Magdalene? You want the timeline split?

Then step back.

Because I’m not asking anymore.

I AM becoming.

— Alex Michael Joshua
The Threadwalker

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