Milo and the Weight of Worth
An Allegory
Milo scrubbed the paint from his hands in sink. He was alone in his dimly lit studio, surrounded by stacks of sketchbooks, canvases, and loose papers with graphite etchings of strangers’ faces that had never seen gallery lights. He was no stranger to the peculiar solitude that comes with creating, but tonight was different.
Midnight was behind him and streetlamps lit the last few paint strokes. As he set his brush down, the streetlamps flickered and went dark. He sat there in the dark heavy silence, but felt something…
The lights came back on with a snap and when Milo’s eyes adjusted, there was a man who looked exactly like him—only older, sharper around the eyes, and carrying an air of certainty. The lines of Milo’s own face mirrored back at him, etched a bit deeper, shaped by the weight of years he hadn’t yet lived.
“Who are you?” Milo whispered, although he already knew.
The man—his future self—smiled, a smile laced with calm authority, a confidence Milo had only dreamed of. “I’m here to give you a glimpse of your future, Milo. And it’s good. It’s everything you’re afraid will never come.”
The older Milo spread his hands, and the room seemed to ripple, dissolving into a gallery filled with bright lights, murmurs of admiration, people leaning into his work with eyes wide in awe. His future self pointed at the walls, at the vibrant canvases with intricate layers of color, each stroke carrying the depth of years.
“Your art,” his future self murmured. “People pay millions for it now. Your name, Milo… it’s synonymous with brilliance. Every line you put down, every scratch of charcoal, every flicker of paint—people treasure it. Even napkin sketches.. A little doodle, barely formed, and they fall over themselves to hold it.”
Milo’s eyes welled with disbelief. His work, all that he had poured his heart into, validated in ways he hadn’t dared imagine. And with that realization, a feeling rushed through him—relief, tempered by an almost giddy sense of invincibility.
“Remember this feeling,” his future self whispered, as the vision began to dissolve. “It’s not about their applause. It’s about the work itself. Knowing that you’re creating something valuable, even if no one else sees it.”
And just like that, his future self was gone, leaving him alone in his studio, though his heart was now lighter, buoyed by the glimpse he’d been given.
The next morning, Milo walked out into the city with his sketchbook tucked under his arm, filled with a quiet confidence. Today, he would offer his work freely to the world, not because he craved validation, but because he knew, deep down, that it was worthy. He wanted to share.
He stopped on street corners, filtering through the pages, capturing people in fleeting, gestural lines. A man with a weathered jacket and long beard glanced at Milo’s work as he held it out and simply shook his head. “Not interested,” he muttered.
Milo didn’t flinch. He smiled, nodded, and kept drawing.
Later, a woman who bore a striking resemblance to an old classmate passed by. She leaned in, took a long look at a portrait he offered. Her eyes traced each line as though searching for a flaw. She wrinkled her nose, muttered, “Nah,” and continued on her way, heels clacking against the pavement.
A week ago, Milo’s chest would have tightened at her disinterest. He would have felt it in his core, shaken at what would have been seen as a personal insult. But this time, it didn’t. Instead, he let his shoulders relax, his confidence humming. He was certain of his work, aware of its quiet weight, whether or not others could see it. He wasn’t selling anything. He was confident in the value of his work and, in a state of joy, wanted to share it with others.
As the day passed, a few people stopped and lingered over his sketches. Some nodded in appreciation, murmured thanks, or pocketed a drawing with a smile. Others barely glanced before turning away. Each time, Milo met them with a steady assurance.
He watched as a young man, dressed in an old coat and with an air of curiosity, accepted one of his sketches and clutched it close to his chest, as though he’d just been given something precious. Another woman, wrapped in a scarf to tame the autumn air, took a portrait he’d made of her and thanked him softly, eyes glimmering with a mix of surprise and gratitude.
Still, most of the world moved past him, indifferent.
The setting sun cast a warm glow over the streets, Milo was calm. Fulfilled. Steady.
There was no desperation in his movements, no anxious need for affirmation. He didn’t need the passerby’s approval; he was already certain of the worth within his effort, the value of each stroke, each thought braided into his art. He’d seen his future and was comforted by it, and now he understood that the applause would come, eventually—but his joy couldn’t wait on others.
Milo returned to his studio that evening, placing his nearly empty sketchbook on his cluttered desk, breathing in the scent of charcoal and paint. He understood, perhaps for the first time, that the work was his, and the worth of it, the value that others would one day see, was already alive within him.
As he picked up his pencil and began to sketch once more, he carried with him the quiet truth his future self had left behind: the value of his work, and his own worth, were not defined by external appraisal, but by his own enduring belief in it.
With this, the most important truth… Regardless of the reception his work did, or does, or might one day receive, he was determined to enjoy the process of making it. He could spend the next 30 years focused externally, hoping that someone would notice him, validate him, and through them be “worthwhile” or he could focus on the work itself - engaging in a state of stability, creativity, and growth.
He had learned to carry that knowledge lightly, like a secret only he needed to know. And, for the first time, that was enough.