“Stop Tryna Be Seen—You Ain’t Here for That”
For the Gods Walkin’ Round Like Mortals (Intro)
Alright, listen here, this ain’t no Sunday School message. This is for the inner God. The raw you. The chaos spark you been suppressing to keep folk comfortable. If you still waitin’ on somebody to understand you—this gon’ shake your foundation. And that’s the point. We ain't here to coddle your ego. We here to evaporate that mug.
This is for the ones with the soul pressure buildin’ in their chest. For the ones knowin’ deep down something ain’t right but can’t name it. That’s your inner being sayin’, “Aye, we didn’t come here to be understood. We came to wreck shop and dip.”
We ain’t doin’ no fake healing circles. This that old school chaos work. The underground railroad for the soul. You hear me? Let’s ride.
“This Ain’t Your First Rodeo, Bruh—Stop Actin’ Brand New.”
“You didn’t come down here to find yourself, you came here to unfold what you already are. This ain’t about no growth—it’s about decay of the fake. You a God wearin’ meat for the mission. So cut the baby talk. Stop lookin’ for the light. You are the damn light. These illusions? Just cardboard props for your soul to knock over. You ain’t here to learn—you here to remember, disrupt, and dissolve.” — Marcus McCormick
See, one of the biggest traps they done set in this Gnostic prison complex—this demiurgic zoo—is this idea you supposed to be understood.
And that right there? That’s how they catch your ass.
That’s the leash.
The moment you start tryin’ to explain yourself, convince somebody, break yourself down into digestible chunks for folks to swallow? Boom. You a prisoner again. Wrapped up in psychic chains. Energetically small so folks don’t choke on your truth.
But lemme tell you, Chaos Being… you weren’t made to be chewable. You were made to be combustible.
Stop actin’ like you here to be a menu item. You a flame. A sacred fire. Not everybody meant to touch you, and they damn sure ain’t gon’ understand how you burn.
When you try to be understood, you start shapeshiftin' into something you ain’t—just to be palatable. You twist your tone, you shrink your truth, you remix your light into low-frequency language so they can "relate." That ain’t divine, that’s emotional prostitution. You out here sellin’ your essence for a little bit of approval. A little head nod. A damn “I get you.” Man, please.
Understand this: This realm feeds off your desire to be understood. You keep explainin’, keep sharin’, keep “opening up”—and all you doin’ is lettin’ these psychic vampires get your keys. They don’t love you. They studyin’ you. They tryna find an angle. That’s why they want access. That’s why they “care.” It’s data collection. Energetic reconnaissance.
“Don’t Let These Niggas Digitize Your Divinity.”
“See, what they want is to take your chaos and compress it into a program they can study, measure, control. They want your soul in 1080p, easily explained, downloadable. That’s what all this ‘understand me’ crap leads to—you bein’ an app on somebody else’s screen. Nah, you gotta stay analog. Stay quantum. Speak in codes. Move like a glitch. Let ‘em try to figure you out and short-circuit in the process. Keep your magic encrypted. Keep your essence undocumented.” — Marcus McCormick
Look at the pattern: You let folks in, and next thing you know—you drained. You confused. You start second-guessin’ your own inner gnosis. You ain't ascended, you uploaded… to their script. And now you back in the damn loop.
No, Chaos Being. You gotta stop tryin’ to be understood. That ain’t your job. Your job is to be aligned with your own damn current.
When the real you show up, it ain’t always gonna look noble. Sometimes the God is quiet. Sometimes she disappear. Sometimes the God cussin’ folk out. Sometimes she don’t answer no texts. That's not dysfunction—that's preservation.
Let me say this plain: You got nothin’ to prove. You ain't here to earn love. You ain't here to make sense to broken people. You ain’t here to be everybody’s safe space. That’s slavery. Spiritual servitude.
What you are is coded. Encoded like ancient tech. And not everybody got the passcode to access you. And guess what? They ain’t supposed to. You ain’t here to be unlocked. You here to unlock yourself.
And let’s talk relationships, ‘cause that’s where this trap hit hardest. You sittin’ there like, “If they could just understand me, maybe they’d love me right.” No, Chaos Being. You beggin' to be loved by the blind. Stop castin’ pearls to folks that ain't even lookin'. You tryin’ to give the light to lamps with no plugs.
They ain't got the spiritual eyes to even see what you are. So stop beggin’ to be seen.
You a frequency, not a damn Facebook status. You don’t need likes—you need liberation.
Start movin’ like a shadow in the right places. Speak when your spirit got somethin’ to shift, not to be validated. Be invisible if you must. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with movin’ in silence. That’s not fear. That’s strategy. You don’t share sacred maps with folks who just wanna decorate their dungeon.
Let them misunderstand you. Let 'em call you distant, crazy, antisocial. Let 'em think whatever the hell they need to.
You ain’t misunderstood. You just untranslatable.
“You Ain’t Supposed to Heal—You Supposed to Hijack the System.”
“All this healing talk got you stuck in recovery mode like you broke. You not broken—you just been programmed to believe trauma is your personality. You ain’t here to fix wounds—you here to extract the power from ‘em. That pain? That’s not baggage, that’s battery. Flip the polarity. Use it as propulsion. You a metaphysical hacker sent to override the code—not sit around cryin’ over it. The trauma was the doorway. The pain was the activation key. Now stop waitin’ to be whole, and start movin’ like the God that got dropped here intact, but just disguised. Healing is a detour. Hijack the system. Get in. Get what’s yours. Get out.” — Marcus McCormick
You ever stop and really ask yourself who you’re tryin’ to be understood by?
'Cause 9 times outta 10, it ain’t even about them—it’s about that wounded version of you still scared to walk alone. That inner child, that leftover fragment from some old karmic rerun, still beggin’ for somebody to say, “I see you.” But what if that’s the part that’s keepin’ you bound? What if the need to be seen is the very veil that’s blinding you?
What would your life feel like if you never had to translate your essence again? No more shapeshifting. No more shrinkin’ your chaos into something “digestible.” What if you stopped explaining your frequency and just lived it out loud? Could you handle the solitude that comes with being uncapturable?
Are you loved... or are you tolerated? That’s the question. Are they lovin’ your raw frequency, or the persona you designed just to keep the peace? You got people in your life who love the watered-down version of you because the real you—the nuclear you—makes 'em uncomfortable. And deep down, you know it.
So ask yourself—what contracts did I sign, silently, just to feel accepted? Just to be seen? You might need to burn some of those. Ain’t gotta be dramatic, but it do gotta be final. Could be a candle, a word, a tear, a firm exit. But something gotta go. You can’t keep draggin' ghosts just to keep your aura warm.
Now here’s the real gut punch:
If you never explained yourself again, if nobody ever “got” you again, if nobody ever understood your frequency…
Would you still walk like a God?
Would you still trust your chaos?
Don’t answer fast. Let it burn first.
Because on the other side of that burn…
That’s where the real you shows up.
“You Don’t Ascend by Being Loved—You Ascend by Letting Go.”
“They told you love is the highest frequency, but that’s some Hallmark shit. The real high frequency is detachment. When you let go of being understood, being accepted, being held—you become the pure signal. Ain’t no hand-holding in Godhood. You rise by burnin’ bridges that lead to cages. So if it don’t serve your elevation, your chaos, your truth—walk. And don’t look back. You came in alone. You leave alone. But in that aloneness? You meet the All.” — Marcus McCormick
Final Transmission: The Decryption
Let’s stop frontin’. You ain’t here to be nobody’s comfort food. You ain’t here to be understood, liked, or praised. That’s soul bait. That’s the Demiurge dressin’ up validation as love. You a God wearin’ flesh tech, not some emotionally available house pet for other people’s projections. The moment you wanna be understood, you already askin’ to be edited, formatted, repackaged for the simulation. You just handed the Archons the USB drive to your soul.
Every time you explain yourself, you bleed power. That’s the real leak. Not your ex. Not your family. It’s you, tryin’ to make your essence make sense to constructs designed to misunderstand you. You not here to translate. You here to transmit.
The system don't fear your words—it fears your silence. It fears your movement when it ain’t performin’. It fears a being that don’t flinch when it’s unseen. You a myth. A glitch. A divine ghost slippin’ through the seams. Start actin’ like it.
They ain't gotta get you. That ain’t the assignment. The real work is: detach, burn the contracts, reclaim the bandwidth, and become the uncapturable signal. You don’t rise by being loved. You rise by lettin’ go—and walkin’ like you never needed ‘em in the first place.
You don’t need closure. You need ignition. And this? This was the match.
Keep it divine.