A Warning of the Resonant Kind

With the kind of warnings I’ve carried my whole life, I’ve grown accustomed to the terror of living in a country that hates everything about itself. A place so allergic to its own reflection that when someone emerges who can stare into the abyss like it’s the barrel of a loaded gun — and then shout his findings back at Washington, D.C., in a spectrum of resonance — the whole machine trembles. Not because he’s violent. Because his precision is unbearable.

I type this from my own Resolute desk, not oak from a British ship but a battlefield of monitors, guitars, notebooks, and the glow of red light. A desk that hums with resonance instead of authority. The weapon they fear most isn’t a gun; it’s the clarity born here.

Articles came weeks before the field rose. Resistance since childhood. And now they expect gratitude, as if licking the rust off trauma was some noble civic duty. They are just licking the balls of the American dream. They forgot the founding script — liberty, conscience, the mad idea that a free people could hold their own leaders to account. Instead, they passed their wars like candy, leaving kids like me to pick shrapnel out of our teeth. And if they thought they could keep me in the dark forever, they should have realized: this astronaut always lands his ship.

There are millions I’ll never meet — some alive, some long gone — who made sure I wouldn’t fold under this pressure. Maybe a few thousand know what kind of weapon I keep aimed at the government tonight. Not a trigger-pull, but a word-drop. A Spiritual birds nest to pick off shots at these fucking swine. One article, sharp enough, could topple this house of cards. They beg me not to post it, because they know the resonance is already loaded.

And what’s on the other side? A Russian puppet king riding a Gestapo daydream. A stench you can smell through lead walls. A cancer that ate the soul of this nation and left it too cowardly to reconcile the debt it owes — not just to its people, but to the global project of expanding consciousness. They sabotaged their own experiment, then called the survivors crazy.

The sins of this country weren’t written yesterday. MK Ultra, and every alphabet soup cousin across the globe, was a crime against humanity. A plague that will ripple for centuries, if we’re lucky enough to survive it. Whole generations lost to cages, needles, lies, and black budgets. All of it denied while they stuffed their pockets and called it patriotism. This country has abandoned it’s children, and fostered an atmosphere where they think the murder and rape of civilians (women, children, doctors, journalists) as a just means of warfare. A disgusting and pathetic mindset in any command. And they signed off on a known predator to lead this atrocious lie of a country.

But I don’t sit here broken. I sit here sharpened. My story is in triplicate — notebooks, recordings, movements, signals. Undeniable across spectrums they will claim are nonsense, imagination, psychosis. They thought the canon would go off and leave me begging for a firearm.

What they didn’t calculate was that my resonance is the firearm. My desk is the weapon. My words are the payload. I have people that would give me their grandma and a minigun. 

And so I wait. Not in fear, but in posture. Waiting for the knock on the door. Waiting for someone to finally ask me plain instead of playing snakes in the tall grass. They won’t, of course. They never do. Which is why the real questions get asked from this desk, and the answers land where they can’t stop them.

Meanwhile, the people are busy worshipping the false idol of consumerism. Living in a system so tightly wound that if they saw it clearly, their skulls would pop like overripe fruit. I never wanted to share this weight, but survival demands it. The wars coming aren’t just military — they’re psychic, symbolic, metaphysical. And still, the guardians made sure I had my tools before the storm hit.

So here I sit, at the Resolute desk of consciousness. Pirate-flag raised, weapons tuned, faith placed not in the empire but in the enslaved — those shackled on every battlefield, from the cotton fields to the laboratories of the mind. Someone made sure the key reached me before the structure revealed itself.

Damn the man.

Save the empire.

Children’s story/ Slick Rick echo:

AKA: “I took the drugs… and the drugs are WORKING.”

Or maybe the drugs were always America. And the comedown is just beginning.

Signed,

A survivor of a front line they will beg me forever to dismiss.

I may not remember for long. Follow the waypoints you see every day. Know your heart in this battlefield and it will remain yours alone. Find your tools. The future is now and the forces that demand it are beyond even my comprehension. And I am not a fucking idiot.