Forbidden Confessions of a Dream Walker - Part 3: Awakening to Power

After that night, everything was different.

In my very next dream, I could feel it — a courage I had never known before.
At the time, I thought it was the light I had received, some gift from above.
Now, I wonder if it was simply the realization that fear no longer ruled me.

I discovered that the dream world wasn’t just a place of helpless terror.
It was a world of thought.
A place where belief and will shaped reality itself.

I tested my newfound strength.
I flew.
I shifted my form — turning into a dog, a bird, anything I could imagine.
I sent blasts of energy from my hands, defeating enemies I created just for target practice.
I learned I could move instantly to distant places just by willing it.

I realized something else, too — something important.
Anyone can travel in dreams.
Sometimes people get lost — find themselves in strange, distant places without understanding why.
If it ever happens, all they have to do is close their eyes and wish themselves awake.
It really is that simple.

For the first time, dreams were not a prison.
They were a playground.
A training ground.

I didn’t know it yet, but I was becoming something very rare.
A Dream Walker.

---

NEXT - Part 4: Allies and the Hidden War

 

Forbidden Confessions of a Dream Walker - Part 2: The Turning Point and Discovery of Powers

Everything stayed the same for years — the fear, the battles in the dark — until the night something changed.

It happened in a dream like so many before.
I was in the kitchen of my childhood home.
I remember the lights dimming — that was always the first sign she was coming.
The Hag would usually enter from the back porch, and I would scramble toward the living room at the front of the house, desperate to escape.
But it was always the same: as soon as I tried to run, reality would thicken around me. Moving felt like crawling through tar, like something unseen was pulling me backward.

This time started no differently.
I was on my hands and knees, dragging myself toward the living room — when something inside me snapped.

I thought, "I'm sick of this."
I stopped crawling. I stood up.

And instead of fleeing, I turned and marched straight toward the back porch door.

As I moved, a brilliant, sparkling light poured into me from above, entering through the top of my head. It filled me with a strength I'd never known before — not just strength of body, but strength of soul. Somehow, I just knew what I needed to do.

I flung the door open.

The porch beyond was dark, but I could see her — the Hag — cowering in the back corner, huddled in the deepest shadows. She knew. She understood that I wasn't afraid anymore.

Without hesitation, I spoke:
"Leave me and my family alone. Leave, and never come back."

And that was the end of her.

I never saw the Hag again.

---

NEXT - Part 3: Awakening to Power

 

Forbidden Confessions of a Dream Walker - Part 1: Introduction and Childhood

I don't know if anyone will believe me.
Sometimes, even I don't believe myself.

My name doesn't matter. I'm not telling this to become some kind of hero, or to prove anything. I'm just here to tell you what happened to me, the way I lived it. As best as I can, anyway. Dreams are strange things — hard to hold onto. Some details stayed with me, sharp as broken glass. Others slipped away like smoke the moment I opened my eyes. But I’ll give you everything I can.

I am — or at least I was — a Dream Walker.

It started when I was very young. Night after night, something terrible came for me in my dreams. I called it the Hag. She wasn't just a nightmare — I could feel her hatred, her rage, her hunger. She would isolate me from my family, trapping me alone with her. She would scream at me, threaten me, try to wear me down. I think now that she was trying to break me — to make me give in to her somehow. Maybe to open myself to possession. Maybe to something worse.

I never gave in.

Sometimes I would curl up into a ball on the floor or press myself into a corner while she towered over me, shrieking.
Other times, I would just endure it, silent and shaking, waiting for the dream to end.
Always afraid. Always alone.

I told people a little about what was happening. But not much.
The Hag threatened me — told me she would hurt my family if I spoke out.
And she proved she could.
After one threat, my mother suffered a medical emergency so severe she was technically dead for a time on the operating table. I learned then that the Hag's reach wasn't limited to the dream world. She could touch the waking world, too.

I grew up afraid, living with a terror I couldn't explain. My only real goal as a child was simple:
Resist.
No matter what, resist.

---

NEXT - Part 2: The Turning Point and Discovery of Powers

 

Entry from the Journal of a Dream Walker: The Revelation

I wasn’t sure I wanted to ever share this with anyone. Most of what I’ve seen belongs to a world that slips away the moment the sun rises. But this... this has stayed with me. And I think it always will. So I write now, not to remember, but to understand.

It happened on a night like any other. I had just entered the dream world. There was no mission waiting. No call to banish anything. I was alone, standing in a space I hadn’t yet shaped. A blank canvas, still dark and mist-choked. The kind of place that feels like the edge of something vast and unfinished.

That’s when I felt her.

Not saw. Not heard. Felt. A presence I knew, as familiar as any coworker. We’d fought side by side on occasion. She was always calm. Clear-eyed. Competent. One of the few you could rely on in a nightmare. But as soon as I turned to face her, I knew something was wrong.

Her appearance was disheveled, like someone who had wandered too far for too long. Clothes torn, hair wild, eyes too wide. There was a crackling energy around her—not magical, but mental. As if her thoughts were trying to escape faster than her mouth could keep up.

"They won't let me say it," she said, words tumbling out in a frantic rush. "They know. They know I know and they’re coming. I have to tell you before they stop me."

I raised a hand. "Calm down. Just breathe. What are you talking about? Who's coming?"

She laughed. Then whispered. Then screamed. Her voice modulated wildly—laughter turning to sobs, then back to panic.

"It's not what we think!" she gasped. "None of it! Not demons, not angels—not us! We’re not what we think we are."

I tried to steady her. I reached out, gently. "What did you find? Tell me. One thing at a time."

She looked at me, pupils dilated, lip trembling. She lowered her voice to a whisper so soft it barely brushed the air. "I found out why we exist. Humans."

The mist around us thickened, as if the dream itself was listening.

"They kept it from us," she hissed. "The angels. They guard the truth. They bury it. Because if we knew, if any of us knew..."

She looked over her shoulder. There was nothing there. Still, she trembled like something was watching. "I thought it was beautiful at first. But it’s not. It’s not. It’s horrible."

And then she said the word.

Just one word.

I will not write it here. I cannot. To speak it, to read it, to even hear it... is to begin unraveling. That is what happened to her. And what almost happened to me.

The moment she said it, I understood. I felt it. The weight of truth crashing down on a mind not built to carry it. My vision blurred. My knees gave way. My heart raced with an emotion I couldn’t name. Fear, yes. But something deeper. A kind of existential vertigo.

She repeated it again and again, louder each time. And then she began to scream.

Not words. Just sound. Fury and terror and broken laughter all twisted together. And then she ran. Disappeared into the mist like a shadow losing shape.

And I was thrown out. Forced awake, gasping in my bed, soaked in sweat.

I remembered everything. That was unusual. Normally, waking erases the dream world like chalk in rain. But not this time. This time it stayed.

I tried to go back. Not to find her—I knew she was lost. But to find the angels.

They met me only once.

"You are no longer one of us," they said.

I asked why. I begged. They gave no answer.

Cold. Silent. Gone.

I was angry. I was confused. For years I carried that weight—this secret that I hadn’t even asked for. In the waking world, things became difficult. I could function, even thrive on the surface, but everything drained me. Even the simplest tasks felt like lifting mountains.

Eventually I left it all behind. Moved to the country. Found a quiet place far from crowds, from noise. From questions.

And that’s where I began to heal.

Over time, I understood. I hadn’t been punished. I had been protected. Removed from the fight not out of anger—but out of mercy. The angels had saved what was left of me in the only way they could.

Sometimes, they let me back. Briefly. But never for long. I’m not what I once was. I can’t be.

And now, I write this.

Not as a warning. Not exactly.

But you should know this: the world you know isn’t all there is. There are other truths. Other realities. Other meanings.

But be careful what you seek.

Some answers do not liberate.

Some answers only destroy.

The Garden of Eden: A Story of Knowledge, Wisdom, and Mercy - Chapter 6: Mercy in Exile

Back in Eden, the once serene paradise now lay beneath heavy, darkened skies. Adam and Eve sat closely together beneath the sheltering branches of an ancient tree, their hearts heavy with sorrow, shame, and uncertainty. Silence surrounded them—a silence filled with fearful anticipation. Neither dared to speak aloud the questions troubling their hearts, yet both knew that consequences were imminent.

Suddenly, a mighty thunderclap erupted overhead, shaking the earth beneath their feet. Adam and Eve clung tightly together, eyes wide in terror. Above them, the sky parted dramatically, a brilliant, piercing light illuminating the Garden in blinding radiance. Within that light, God’s form slowly became visible, majestic and commanding, yet deeply compassionate.

“Adam! Eve!” His voice resonated deeply, powerful yet tempered with sorrowful gentleness.

Instantly, the humans fell to their knees, trembling, unable to meet His gaze, overcome by shame.

“Father,” Adam began hesitantly, his voice choked with remorse, “we have disobeyed you. We have failed.”

Eve’s tears fell silently, mingling with Adam’s sorrowful confession. “Please forgive us,” she whispered, voice breaking. “We have betrayed your trust.”

God’s voice softened, filled now with deep compassion, His heart aching for His beloved creations. “Yes, my children, you have disobeyed. But you were deceived. Lucifer led you astray, knowing you would lack wisdom to guide your newfound knowledge.”

Adam raised his head cautiously, surprised by the gentle tone. “What shall become of us, Father? We fear your punishment greatly, yet we accept whatever consequence you deem fitting.”

God’s eyes glowed softly, touched deeply by Adam’s humble sincerity. “Your hearts are true, though your actions mistaken. You must understand—I cannot allow you to remain in Eden. Knowledge without wisdom is too dangerous, both for you and this sacred place.”

Eve sobbed quietly, understanding the gravity of their mistake. “We know, Father. We understand that we deserve this punishment.”

God nodded slowly, His expression deeply sorrowful. “Yet punishment alone is not my intent. I have not abandoned you. Instead, I have devised another path for you—a path born of mercy, not wrath.”

Adam and Eve raised their eyes, confusion mixed with hope flickering in their gazes.

“Wisdom, my children, cannot be given to you instantly, as originally intended. Instead, you must acquire it through your lives—through hardship, trials, pain, and joy. Each experience will bring wisdom slowly, piece by piece.”

“And eternal life?” Adam asked, voice hesitant, hopeful yet uncertain.

God smiled softly, reassuringly. “Eternal life will now come through your children. Each new generation will carry humanity forward, perpetuating life itself eternally. Through childbirth, through family, humanity itself will now represent eternal life.”

Adam and Eve listened closely, their sorrow mingling with relief, gratitude, and awe at God's profound mercy. They realized now the full weight of what had been lost, but also saw clearly the hope offered to them, the chance to regain balance and purpose.

God’s voice now deepened gently, firm yet compassionate. “Yet know this clearly—you cannot return to Eden. The Garden must remain untouched, pure. You will leave now through the southeastern pass, never to reenter this place. Life will not be easy. Your journey toward wisdom will be long, and filled with challenges.”

“We understand, Father,” Adam responded humbly, his voice steady and clear. “We accept this path you have created for us.”

God nodded, His face deeply touched by their humble acceptance. “Remember always—I have not stopped loving you. I will be with you, guiding you gently, so long as your hearts remain pure and your actions guided by love. Wisdom awaits you, and I have faith you shall find it.”

Slowly, the radiant light faded from the sky. Adam and Eve rose quietly, comforted by God's merciful words, even as sorrow lingered in their hearts. Together, hand in hand, they walked toward the southeastern pass, now open and clear, their path ahead uncertain but filled with quiet determination.

Stepping out of Eden, they paused, turning back one final time to behold the paradise now forever closed to them. Their hearts filled with both sadness for paradise lost and quiet gratitude for mercy shown.

“We have lost Eden,” Eve whispered softly, eyes glistening with gentle tears. “Yet, Adam, do you not feel it? God still loves us deeply. His mercy is our strength.”

Adam nodded slowly, squeezing her hand gently. “Yes, Eve. God’s love remains our comfort. Our punishment is just—we deserve it. Yet we are not alone.”

Together, they turned resolutely forward, toward their new future—filled with trials, wisdom yet to be gained, life to be created, and endless hope. Paradise behind them, yet love, mercy, and wisdom waiting ahead.

From above, unseen yet watchful, the angel who had guided me gently touched my shoulder. “See clearly,” he whispered softly. “Even in tragedy, mercy remains. Wisdom awaits those who seek it.”

And as Eden faded quietly from our sight, I understood deeply what he meant. Humanity’s greatest tragedy had become its greatest hope—the eternal journey toward wisdom, guided always by God’s unfaltering, compassionate love.

---

The End