GOD IS WAITING…Revelation is Allegory

You were told to watch the skies,
to wait for the lightning, to wait for the trumpets, to wait for the holy one to descend from above and fix this mess you call a world,
to keep your eyes on the heavens and your knees on the floor, to let the fires burn around you while you clung to verses and visions written by men who never knew your name,
to swallow your suffering as sacred, to sanctify your submission, to mistake endurance for purpose, pain for purification, numbness for faith,
you were told that obedience would be rewarded and rebellion would be punished,
that doubt was dangerous, that questioning was sin,
that your intuition was the devil in disguise and your inner voice could never be divine,
you were told that God was a distant figure,
a male ruler on a cosmic throne with books and balances,
with armies of winged watchers and a blacklist of names,
and if you could just make yourself small enough, quiet enough, pure enough, you might be spared,
might be saved,
might be chosen when the skies finally broke open and the holy parade arrived to scoop up the faithful and leave the rest to burn,
so you waited,
while the world bled out,
while the liars wrote laws,
while the powerful made war,
while the sacred was bought, sold, sterilized, and turned into merchandise,
you waited, and they kept you waiting,
because the longer you waited, the less you looked,
the less you noticed what was rising inside you,
what was waking in the marrow,
what pulsed beneath the persona you were taught to wear,
you didn’t see the second coming in the dream that shook your bones,
in the heartbreak that stripped your ego,
in the fire that took your illusions but left you alive,
you didn’t see it in the silence you were forced into,
in the breakdown that was really a birth,
in the day you stopped pretending to be who they said you were,
in the night you screamed at the stars not for help, but for truth,
because you thought the return would be theatrical,
that it would come with angels and thunder and a divine signature you couldn’t miss—
but real awakenings don’t come with warning signs,
they come in the gut,
in the stillness,
in the moment you look in the mirror and don’t recognize yourself,
in the day you stop running and let the ache speak,
in the hour you realize no one is coming to save you because the one who saves was never separate,
you were told to look up,
but you should have looked within,
because the kingdom isn’t in the sky,
and the savior isn’t in the clouds,
the Christ returned in a thousand souls all remembering at once,
in the fire behind your eyes when you finally say no,
in the yes you say to your soul after decades of silence,
in the choice to break every generational curse not with magic,
but with presence,
in the trembling truth that rises when you admit you’ve been complicit in your own forgetting,
in the shattering of the myth that God lives anywhere but here,
in this breath,
in this body,
in this now,
and it hurts—God, it hurts—
to know that you were lied to for so long,
to know that salvation was never withheld—it was only ever ignored,
buried beneath doctrine and distraction,
beneath the noise of false prophets and pretty sermons,
beneath the fear of your own power,
beneath the shame taught by systems that needed you obedient,
not awakened,
beneath every holy book that forgot to tell you:
you are not waiting for God—
God has been waiting for you.

They told you Revelation was prophecy,
that it was a timetable, a prediction, a divine screenplay of doom and judgment and beasts rising from the sea and angels pouring bowls of wrath,
that it was all literal, all future, all external,
that dragons meant governments and horsemen meant pandemics and the whore of Babylon was whoever their church didn’t like that decade,
that the antichrist was always someone out there, never in here,
that the mark of the beast would come as a microchip, or a barcode, or a vaccine,
that you should be afraid, afraid of numbers, afraid of technology, afraid of everything but yourself,
afraid of the book, but never curious enough to read it without their filters,
never free enough to ask why the only book in the Bible written in dream-logic, in symbols, in wild metaphysical vision was somehow the only one we took literally,
and they never told you that Revelation is a mirror,
an inner map,
a symbolic unraveling of the false self,
that the Beast isn’t a dictator—it’s the ego when enthroned,
that Babylon isn’t a city—it’s the system that sells your soul back to you with interest,
that the seven seals are levels of awareness cracking open one by one,
that the trumpets are not in the sky—they are sounding inside you every time a lie dies,
that the apocalypse isn’t the end of the world—it’s the end of illusion,
the unveiling, the great remembering,
that the “end times” are not somewhere ahead—they begin the moment you say, “No more lies,”
that Armageddon isn’t a battlefield in the Middle East—it’s the psychic war you’re already fighting every day between the part of you that wants to stay asleep and the part of you that knows better,
that the real mark of the beast is not on your skin but on your spirit when you sell your authenticity for safety,
when you bow to the machine for convenience,
when you trade your sovereignty for comfort,
when you choose the script over the soul,
and they never told you that the Lamb is not just Christ—it is the you that remembers who you are without the story, without the role, without the mask,
that the Book of Life isn’t filed in heaven—it’s etched into every choice you’ve ever made when no one was watching,
that the harlot rides the beast just like your trauma rides your persona until you finally see it,
and that Revelation ends not in fire but in light,
with the descent of the New Jerusalem—
not a city,
but a state of being,
a consciousness so pure it no longer needs temples because God is within,
a world reborn not by force but by truth,
and all of it, all of it, all of it, was never about watching the sky—
it was about watching your mind,
your motives,
your mirror,
because the apocalypse isn’t coming,
you are in it,
and if you’re brave enough to read Revelation like a code for spiritual transformation,
if you’re willing to see that it was written in symbols so tyrants couldn’t destroy it,
if you understand that it was never a warning but an invitation—
then you don’t fear the end anymore,
because you realize:
what ends was never you.
What ends is the lie.
What ends is the empire of illusion within you.
What ends is the sleep.
And what begins… is real.

Not a man.
Not a throne.
Not an old bearded judge in the clouds keeping score.

But a presence,
a pulse beneath reality itself,
so vast it cannot be named,
so intimate it knows your breath better than you do,
so ancient it was never born,
so present it’s never left.

God, in this view, is not separate from the storm—
God is the silence inside it.

Not a ruler to be feared,
but a frequency to be remembered,
the fire behind your eyes when you tell the truth,
the warmth in your chest when you see someone as they really are,
the stillness that arrives the moment you stop pretending.

God is not watching you.
God is experiencing through you,
not above you but within,
not judging but unfolding,
not punishing but mirroring,
not demanding worship but waiting to be recognized
in a tree,
in a tear,
in the pause between thoughts,
in the ache of beauty so deep it breaks your story.

God is not a threat.
God is the thread.
The thread that runs through you and every star and every mistake and every miracle.

God is the unfolding, the returning, the remembering.
God is the One behind the veil—and the veil itself.
God is both the wound and the healer,
the serpent and the wings,
the dark that teaches and the light that reveals.

In Revelation’s true language,
God is not the one who ends the world.
God is the one you find
when the false world ends.

The flame that never needed a temple.
The voice that never shouted.
The truth that never changed.
The love that never needed to be earned.

Not somewhere else.
Not someday later.
But here.
Now.
Always.