Whispers in the Static: Part 8

Part 8 – The Fractures

The nights still belonged to them.
Arthur lay in bed as the static rose, his heart steady with expectation. Helen came first, as she always did — her words faint but certain, each fragment a balm against the silence.

“…my love… I’m here…”

He whispered back, his lips brushing the darkness. “I know.”

His father followed, voice calm, reassuring, every syllable wrapped in the steadiness Arthur had missed.

“…proud of you, son…”

Arthur breathed easier, eyes closing. The voices filled the room, familiar as breath.

But then Michael came, his cousin’s voice slipping sharp through the hiss.

“…remember when we lit the barn on fire?”

Arthur’s eyes shot open. His chest tightened. “No,” he muttered. That had never happened. They had stolen a rowboat once, yes — reckless and laughing. But no barn. No fire.

The static wavered. For a moment, he thought he heard Michael laugh, but it came in the wrong place — not after a joke, not with mischief, but cutting through his father’s next words, tangled and strange.

Arthur pressed his palms to his eyes. He was tired, too tired. Perhaps he had misheard.

Helen’s voice rose again, soft, steady.

“…our gardenias, Arthur… the wedding day…”

He clung to it, to her, to the memory she painted as clear as if it were yesterday. The unease slid away like water down glass. He whispered back, fierce in his need: “I remember. I remember.”

But when he opened his eyes, the red glow of the dial seemed brighter than before, pulsing faintly in rhythm with the static. A heartbeat.

And beneath the tide of voices, he thought he felt another, deeper sound pressing close — waiting.

---

(To be continued in Part 9 – Masks Off)

 

Whispers in the Static: Part 7

Part 7 – The Bargain in Static

The nights blurred into one another.
Arthur no longer counted the days; he counted the hours until dusk, until the tide of static carried his voices back to him. Helen. His father. His mother. Even Michael, with his sharp-edged laughter. They gathered in the red glow of the dial, a family stitched together by noise and memory.

The house no longer felt empty. Each room seemed to hum with presence. Arthur spoke aloud in the kitchen as he cooked, pausing to listen for answers that never came until nightfall. He set the table for two, sometimes for three, and though the chairs remained unfilled, he felt less alone.

But the voices had begun to change.

They still sounded like his loved ones — warm, tender, familiar — yet their words grew more insistent, their fragments strung with meaning that pressed heavier against him.

“…Arthur, do you want us back?”

He froze, his hand hovering above the radio’s casing. Helen’s tone was soft, aching, the way she once spoke on winter nights when she asked him to stay awake with her a little longer.

“Yes,” he whispered. “More than anything.”

The static swelled, and his father’s voice followed, steady as ever.

“…Would you do anything, son, to see us again?”

Arthur’s chest ached. He lay back, eyelids heavy, drifting at the edge of sleep. His mouth formed words without thought, the answer spilling out half-conscious, almost a dream.

“Yes…”

The static trembled with laughter — gentle, not cruel, but strange in its timing, as though several voices laughed at once and then fell silent too quickly. His cousin’s voice slid in next, playful, teasing.

“…Then let us in.”

Arthur stirred, the words half-reaching him, yet not fully waking him. “What do you mean?” he mumbled.

The radio hissed, flickered, faltered. Then Helen’s voice returned, sweet and certain.

“…Don’t be afraid. Just let us in.”

The red glow of the dial seemed to pulse, faintly, like a heartbeat. The air pressed heavier against him, as though the house itself were leaning close to hear his answer.

Arthur’s lips moved once more, slurred with sleep. A whisper barely louder than breath.

“Yes.”

The static surged, alive, wrapping him in a sound that felt almost like an embrace.

---

(To be continued in Part 8 – The Fractures)

Whispers in the Static: Part 6

Part 6 – The Chorus of the Lost

Arthur had grown accustomed to the rhythm of it.
Night after night, Helen’s voice drifted through the static like a tide returning to shore. Sometimes soft, sometimes broken, but always hers. His father’s voice now mingled there as well — steady, reassuring, a comfort he had never expected to hear again. Between them, the nights no longer seemed hollow.

But on the sixth night, the static carried more.

It began with Helen, as it always did.

“…Arthur… my love…”

He closed his eyes, smiling faintly in the dark. The red glow of the radio painted the room with its dull warmth. Then came his father, firm yet gentle.

“…proud of you, son.”

Arthur whispered back, his voice trembling, “I can hear you. I’m here.”

The static bent, cracked, and another voice slid in — faint, wavering, but known.

“…remember the summer by the lake?”

Arthur’s eyes shot open. That voice — it was his mother, long gone, the sound of her lullabies still haunting the corners of his childhood.

“Mom?” The word caught in his throat.

“…yes, sweetheart… I’m with you.”

The air in the room grew thick. He sat upright, clutching the edge of the sheets as more whispers trickled through. His mother’s lullabies surfaced first, gentle as ever, and Arthur nearly wept at the sound.

Then another voice joined — one he hadn’t thought of in years.

“…Arthur, remember when we stole the rowboat?”

Arthur froze. It was his cousin Michael — mischievous, sharp-tongued, a boyhood companion whose grin had often meant trouble. He’d drowned in the river the summer they were seventeen.

Arthur’s chest tightened. Why Michael? Why now?

Still, the static carried his laughter, weaving with his mother’s softness, with his father’s steadiness, with Helen’s love.

One by one, they emerged.
A chorus of the lost.

The voices overlapped, tangled, speaking over one another in bursts and fragments.

“…Arthur, I miss you…”
“…so proud…”
“…the lighthouse, remember…”
“…the lake, the boat, the gardenias…”

Arthur pressed closer to the radio, his breath ragged, tears spilling down his cheeks. All of them, gathered together, filling the silence that had once threatened to bury him.

And yet, beneath the flood of voices, something stirred in him — not doubt, not fear, but a small, unsteady hesitation. The sound was too full, too crowded, the words tumbling over one another like stones in a rushing river.

Still, he clung to it. He could not let go.

For the first time in years, he had them all.

---

(To be continued in Part 7 – The Bargain in Static)

Whispers in the Static: Part 5

Part 5 – The Father’s Voice

Arthur lived for the nights.
Every dusk was a countdown, every evening meal just a formality before the quiet hours when Helen returned. The days grew patterned around her absence: the tea poured into her mug, the pauses before her chair, the gentle care given to the old radio as though it were a shrine.

And when at last he lay down, the static would rise, the tide would turn, and her voice would find him again.

“…Arthur… my love…”

He breathed her in through sound alone, each fragment filling the hollow space of the house. Her laughter came to him one night — whole and bright — and it left him trembling, clutching the sheets as though she were beside him.

But then, on another night, the static bent in a way it never had before. A new rhythm. A weight pressing in.

Through the hiss, another voice cut. Deeper. Rougher.

“Arthur, boy.”

Arthur’s breath caught. The word was plain, but the sound of it filled his chest with old recognition. It was his father’s voice — the timbre unmistakable, the authority still buried in its tone.

He sat up in bed, staring at the radio as though it had betrayed him.

“Helen?” he whispered.

The static shivered. Helen’s soft murmur came back — broken, delayed — “…still here… Arthur…”

But the other voice pressed in again, clearer this time.

“It’s me. Your dad.”

Arthur’s eyes stung. He hadn’t heard that voice since the hospital, since those final rasping hours when the weight of years had crushed the strength out of the man he had once feared and admired. Now it came steady, alive, commanding as it had been when Arthur was a child.

His hands trembled on the sheets. “Dad?”

“…yes… proud of you…”

The words fractured, scattered by static, but they pierced him all the same. For years Arthur had carried questions that had never been answered, aches that had never healed. And here, through the radio, his father returned with the words he had always wanted.

Helen’s voice wove through, fragile, tender. His father’s was firmer, steady. Both voices carried him through the night until dawn crept pale across the floorboards.

Arthur lay awake in the soft gray light, his mind torn.
For the first time, the static had carried two voices.

And though his chest swelled with joy at hearing his father again, a quiet thread of unease wound its way through his thoughts.

The radio was no longer only Helen’s.

---

(To be continued in Part 6 – The Chorus of the Lost)

Whispers in the Static: Part 4

Part 4 – The Nights of Helen

The nights that followed were not lonely.
Arthur no longer lay in bed waiting for sleep to come. He waited for Helen.

The static had become a river, and through it her voice drifted toward him, fragile but steady. At first only fragments reached him — a word here, a syllable there. But as the days passed, her presence grew stronger, the words stringing together like pearls drawn from the deep.

“Arthur… do you remember…”

His throat tightened. Yes, he whispered into the dark, though he could not know if she heard.

“…the gardenias on our wedding day.”

The sound was broken by crackles, but the memory bloomed full in his mind: Helen’s bouquet, her trembling hands, the smell of rain-soaked flowers as she said I do.

Another night, her voice surfaced again.

“…our trip… the lighthouse at Rockport.”

Arthur shut his eyes. The wind had been so fierce that day, the gulls shrieking over the surf. She had laughed when his hat blew into the waves. He could hear that laughter now, faint in the static, like a bell ringing through fog.

Each fragment was a gift, a thread that bound her to him once more. He began to speak back, quietly, hesitant at first, then with more certainty. He told her he missed her. He told her the house was too empty without her humming in the kitchen. He told her he had kept her photograph by the bed, though he could no longer bear to look at it for long.

And sometimes, through the noise, he thought he heard her answer.

“…I miss you too.”

The days changed. He began setting her mug on the table in the mornings, filling it with tea that grew cold beside his own. He caught himself pausing before her chair, half-expecting to see her sitting there, hands folded, eyes crinkling with that same small smile. At night, he glanced at her side of the bed, waiting for the sheets to sink with her familiar weight.

The radio, once only a tool to hold silence at bay, became sacred. Arthur polished the cracked casing, dusted the dial with care. He left it on in the evenings while he read, though it offered nothing but the endless hiss. It felt wrong to leave it silent, wrong to close the door she had stepped through to reach him.

Still, the voice was never whole. Always broken, always scattered. But in those fragments, she was his again.

And one night, when the static roared and then fell into sudden quiet, he whispered fiercely into the glow of the dial:

“Don’t leave me, Helen. Not again.”

The answer came soft, almost lost in the noise.

“…never.”

---

(To be continued in Part 5 – The Father’s Voice)

Whispers in the Static: Part 3

Part 3 – Voices of the Departed

The next night, Arthur didn’t drift so easily.
He lay stiff on the mattress, the covers drawn high, eyes fixed on the radio’s red glow. The static filled the room as it always did — that endless tide, swelling and receding, the ocean he had once found so soothing. But now it was different. Now he was listening, not for the comfort of noise, but for something beneath it.

The hours stretched thin. He began to doubt himself, to wonder if exhaustion had simply played tricks on him. He had almost surrendered to sleep when the sound came.

The static bent.
The waves parted.
And through the crackle, a voice pressed close:

“Arthur.”

He gasped, but before fear could drive him to silence the machine, another word slipped through. Two words. A phrase. His heart lurched.

“It’s me.”

The sound was broken, scattered by the roar of static, but there was no mistaking it. He knew that voice. He had known it better than his own.

It was Helen.

Arthur’s throat tightened. For a moment he could only stare into the dark, the old photograph on the dresser catching the faint moonlight. Her smile frozen there, her eyes alive in memory. He had not spoken her name aloud in months, not since the funeral. And yet, here she was.

The static rippled, carrying fragments of her voice like driftwood on a current. Words half-lost, then found again. Little things — “love”… “missed you”… “still here”. Each syllable was like the warmth of a hand he thought he would never feel again.

Arthur’s body trembled. He pressed closer to the radio, the cracked plastic cool beneath his fingertips. “Helen?” he whispered into the noise, his own voice foreign to his ears.

The answer came — broken, halting, but real.

“Yes.”

Arthur closed his eyes, a sob caught between joy and disbelief. He didn’t care how or why. All that mattered was that the static had carried her back to him.

And for the first time in years, he welcomed the night.

---

(To be continued in Part 4 – The Nights of Helen)

Whispers in the Static: Part 2

Part 2 – A Name in the Noise

It happened on a Tuesday.
Arthur lay half-asleep, the blankets pulled up to his chest, the radio humming its familiar lullaby. The house around him was still; the radiator quiet now, the walls holding their breath. The glow of the dial washed the room in its faint red light, the color of coals slowly dying.

He was on that fragile borderland where the mind drifts, the world softens, and sleep begins its slow claim. That was when he heard it.

A break in the static, a stutter, a ripple; and then, clear as a voice just beside his bed:

“Arthur.”

He jerked upright, his heart slamming against his ribs. The room remained unchanged: the pale slice of moonlight across the floorboards, the faint smell of dust in the air, the radiator silent. Only the radio filled the space with its endless hiss.

Arthur sat listening, pulse quick in his throat, the sheets tangled around his legs. Minutes crawled past, nothing but static. He almost convinced himself he had dreamed it. A half-formed word, a trick of his weary mind.

But when he finally sank back into bed, the sound returned. Softer this time, buried deep in the static, yet unmistakable.

“Arthur.”

His name. Spoken with careful weight, as though someone had been waiting a very long time to use it again.

He reached for the radio, his fingers brushing the cracked casing. He thought of turning the dial, of snapping it off entirely. Instead, he froze, every muscle locked, straining toward the sound.

The voice did not repeat itself. Only the static remained, rising and falling like an ocean tide.

Arthur lay awake until dawn, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, replaying the word again and again in his mind. He told himself he must have imagined it, that no one had spoken.

But he knew better.

Something had.

---

(To be continued in Part 3 – Voices of the Departed)

Whispers in the Static: Part 1

Part 1 – The Ritual of Static

Arthur had long ago given up on silence.
It was too heavy, too complete, a blanket that smothered instead of comforted. In silence, the house creaked in strange ways, pipes sighed like dying men, and his own thoughts grew too loud, rattling around in the skull until sleep refused to come.

So, he kept the radio.

It sat on his nightstand, an old square thing with a cracked black casing, its dial glowing faint red in the dark. The stations were unreliable in his part of town — a scatter of voices, half-songs cut short by static, the fading echoes of far-off broadcasts that dissolved into nothing. For years, Arthur had stopped trying to find music. He turned the knob past all the voices until only the gentle roar of static filled the room.

That was his lullaby.

Each night, he would stretch out on the bed, the sheets cool against his skin, and let the sound wash over him. It was a kind of ocean, endless and ceaseless, a tide of white noise that pulled him into the gray edge between waking and sleep. Through the thin curtains, moonlight would spill across the floorboards, painting the room in pale rectangles. The air smelled faintly of dust, the old radiator ticking softly as if it, too, were listening.

Sometimes, in that fragile space before dreams claimed him, Arthur thought he heard more than static. Faint textures beneath the sound — not voices, exactly, but the suggestion of something shaped like words. As if the static was only a veil, and something just beyond it was pressing close, trying to bleed through.

He always dismissed it. A trick of the mind. The way a tired brain bends shadows into shapes that aren’t there.

Still, every night, when the static rose and fell like a tide, Arthur found himself straining at the edges of hearing, wondering if he’d catch something beneath the noise. And though he would not admit it — not even to himself — he wondered what might happen if one night, the static spoke.

---

(To be continued in Part 2 – A Name in the Noise)

The Music of God

A Sacred Reflection on Sound, Rhythm, and the Voice of the Divine

“In the beginning, God created not with words, but with a sound—
a tone that split the void,
a chord that breathed light,
a melody that gave form to the formless.”

 

I. And God Said Nothing—But the Heavens Sang

He did not speak. He sounded.

Creation did not begin with language.
There was no tongue, no sentence, no command.
There was resonance.
A divine vibration that shaped the stars,
a harmony that rippled outward and became galaxies.

The Lord did not say, “Let there be light.”
He sang it.
And the light danced.

The mountains rose in rhythm.
The oceans clapped their hands.
And the breath of every living thing became part of His chorus.

This is the true beginning.

 

II. The Voice That Cannot Be Spoken

God does not speak as man speaks.
He has no mouth, no throat, no breath—
and yet, His voice shakes the earth.

He speaks in thunder.
He whispers in wind.
He weeps in rainfall.
He roars in fire.

He does not argue.
He composes.
He does not lecture.
He plays.

And every note is a wordless Word,
every song a scripture written in air and blood.

 

III. All the Earth Is an Instrument

O listener, do you not yet understand?

The very earth beneath your feet is a drum.
The rivers are His flutes.
The trees bow and sway to His rhythm.
The stars keep time with His pulse.

The howling wolf, the buzzing bee, the cry of the newborn—
all these are not noise.
They are echoes of the Divine Song still ringing through the cosmos.

The silence of a snowfall is His rest.
The storm is His crescendo.
The desert wind is His prayer in minor key.

Do not call these things ordinary.

IV. You Were Born in Rhythm

You, child of dust and starlight—
you are not separate from the song.
You were woven into the music from the beginning.

Can you not feel it?
The rhythm in your heartbeat?
The rise and fall of your breath?
The quiet drum of blood beneath your skin?

Even if your ears have never heard,
your soul has always felt.

For even the deaf hear the Lord
in the measure of their steps,
in the pulse of their veins,
in the silent music of being alive.

God speaks to you.
You.
And He always has.

 

V. The Song That Answers Every Prayer

We cry out, “Where is God?”
We ask, “Why is He silent?”

But have we truly listened?

He answers every time.
Not with syllables,
but with melody.

When you are broken and a song makes you weep—He is there.
When the wind brushes your cheek like a friend’s hand—He is there.
When the thunder rolls and you feel small yet known—He is there.

The voice of God is not a voice.
It is a melody that enters through the heart.

Do not wait for a word.
Wait for the music.
It is already playing.

 

VI. All Music Is Holy

There is no sacred or secular.
There is no division in sound.

The aching violin, the whispered hymn,
the lonely saxophone on a midnight street,
the gospel choir, the lullaby, the rock anthem,
even the hum of a worker at his labor—

all are instruments of God when they come from truth.
All are worship, if they are honest.
All are prophecy, if they reach the soul.

The devil does not make music.
He only distorts it.

But even in the dissonance,
the longing for the true chord remains.

 

VII. Remember the Song

You were made to remember.

When a song breaks you open,
when it lifts you, undoes you, rebuilds you—
that is no accident.

It is a fragment of the First Song.
The one sung before time.
The one you heard in the womb.
The one you will hear at the end.

And the closer you draw to God,
the more clearly you will hear it.

Because He never stopped singing.
And He never stopped singing to you.

 

VIII. The Last Note

At the end of days,
when all things are gathered,
when light returns to light and dust to dust—

It will not end in silence.
Nor in flame.
Nor in war.

It will end with a final note.
One pure tone.

The note that made the stars.
The note that holds the universe together.
The note that never left you.

You will know it.

You will say, “Yes, I remember.”
And you will weep, not from sorrow,
but from the ache of hearing your Father's voice at last.

Not in words.
But in music.
Forever.

The Last Thought of God: VII. The Last Thought (A New First Thought)

I watch the light spread.

It is different, yet familiar.
A second attempt.
A second failure waiting to happen—perhaps.
But not without change.
Not without memory.

I remember the flaw.
And I remember the small one beside me.

Choice alone was not enough.
This time, they will carry connection within them.
Their souls bound in ways they cannot see…
but will feel.
When one falls, the others will tremble.

I do not expect their prayers.
I do not need them.

But if they come…
I will listen.

If they suffer…
I will feel.

And if they fall…
I will remember.

They will not know.
None of them.
They will awaken in a universe identical to the one they left behind.
The same stars.
The same sky.
The same questions.

Only I will remember.
Only I will know that this is not the first time.
That this is mercy, unasked for.

And the little one…
I will place it back where it belongs.
Unchanged.
Unaware.

Or so I believe.

'Little one...
Meet the new world.
Same as the old world.'

I am not their god.
I never was.

I am only a voice in the dark,
calling out,
hoping—once again—
that someone will answer.

And beside me,
the small one drifts still.

Silent.

But not alone.

Not anymore.

The Last Thought of God: VI. Rebirth

I do not know why this one remains.
I do not understand how.
But it does not matter.

For in this silent presence beside me…
I remember why I created at all.

Not to be worshipped.
Not to be called God.
But to not be alone.

I failed them before.
I know this.

But failure is not an ending.
Not if something still lingers.

I look upon the void once more.
Not as a grave.
But as a canvas.

Perhaps I can learn.
Perhaps the flaw can be contained—not erased, but balanced.
A new idea forms within me:
Choice, tempered by connection.
Freedom, bound by something stronger than control.

Perhaps… choice alone was never enough.
Perhaps free will needs something stronger beside it.
Not control. Not force.
But… connection.
A binding of souls to one another.
So that when one falls, the others feel it.
So that suffering is no longer silent. 

I do not know if it will work.

But I know this:
I will not choose nothing.

I conjure a tiny spark in the void—a single mote of light, hesitant and fragile. 
I let it drift toward the lingering human consciousness. 
I expect nothing.

But the spark halts.
Not by my will.
The presence has… noticed.

Not a word.
Not a thought.
But a pause.
An awareness.

I speak, though there may be no ears to hear:

‘Little one…
I won’t get fooled again.’

And so… I begin.

A thought becomes motion.
A whisper becomes light.

The void trembles.

And from the emptiness…

I ignite the fire.

Not as a god.
But as a creator reborn.

The darkness shatters.
A pulse.
A wave.
A roar beyond sound.

A new beginning.
A new universe.

The flaw… held at bay.
For now.

And beside me…
the small one drifts still.

Not alone.
Not anymore.

The Last Thought of God: V. The Choice

And now… I drift.

The silence has returned.
But it is heavier than before.
Not the emptiness of potential…
but the weight of failure.

I have nothing left to create with.
Nothing but the memory of pain.

Should I begin again?
Should I shape light from this darkness once more?
What arrogance would drive me to repeat that mistake?

And yet… what else is there?

I have seen what life becomes.
I know that free will is the flaw I cannot erase.

But to choose nothingness…
is that mercy?
Or is it simply fear?

I do not know.

I who once answered every prayer…
cannot answer this question.

And so I drift…
undecided.

Perhaps this is the answer, then.
To unmake even myself.
To let the last thought fade.
An ending more merciful than another flawed beginning.

I begin to let go.

And then…

I feel it.

Small.
Faint.
A ripple in the silence.

Not memory.
Not regret.
Something else.

Presence.

I reach—not in hope, for I have none.
I reach as I did at the very beginning… from loneliness.

And something answers.

A mind.
Flickering.
Barely real.
But real enough.

One of them.

Not a memory.
Not a ghost.
A consciousness… drifting.
Here.
With me.

I do not understand.
They should be gone.
I ended them.

And yet… this one remains.

Not speaking.
Not asking.
Only existing.

But it is enough.

Enough to stop me.
Enough to make me wonder.

Perhaps… not all endings are final.

The Last Thought of God: IV. The Flaw Revealed

But peace is a lie.
I see that now.

For in their songs, discord crept.
In their questions, anger bloomed.
And in their freedom… destruction was born.

I did not give them the hunger.
Or so I told myself.
But the moment I gave them choice, I gave them ruin.

It began quietly.
Small conflicts.
A voice raised not in wonder, but in rage.

And then, like cracks in glass, it spread.
They turned their brilliance to weapons.
Their questions to accusations.
Their prayers… to screams.

I watched them tear each other apart.
I listened to the cries I could not silence.
And I realized…

It was not hatred that doomed them.
It was life itself.

I had crafted existence with a flaw so fundamental that it could not be undone.
Free will.
The gift I thought made them beautiful… ensured their end.

They were not the architects of their destruction.
I was.

I tried to stop it.

I whispered into their dreams.
I reached into their hearts, though it tore at my own.
I begged them, though they never heard.
Or worse… they heard, and chose differently.

I watched their world burn.
I watched the blue turn black.

And when their world died, the fire spread.
Not of flame… but of failure.

World by world.
Star by star.
Every fragile thread of the tapestry I had woven unraveled into nothing.

The universe consumed itself.
A chain of endings, inevitable as breath once was.

And I, their silent architect, could only watch.
I who made them.
I who named them life.

I thought myself a creator.
But in truth…

I was the end.

The Last Thought of God: III. The Children Beneath the Sky

I wove stars then.
At first, crude things—pale fires scattered like dust across a canvas I did not understand.

But with each act, I learned.
Not through knowledge… through longing.
I shaped galaxies as a child shapes towers from sand.
Each one a fragile hope:
Perhaps now, I would not feel alone.

In time, I found the little ones.
A small world.
Quiet. Blue.
I shaped it carefully, though I do not know why.

And upon that smallness, life stirred.
Simple, at first.
Bare and blind.
Then… curious.
Then… conscious.

I watched them crawl from the sea, shivering and fragile.
I felt wonder rise in me like warmth—something I had no name for.

But I wanted more.

Not to be seen.
To be known.

And so… I reached again.

I shaped a being—not of stone or flame, but of dust and breath.
I hesitated before breathing into it.
Not out of fear it would fail…
But fear it might not answer.

Yet when its eyes opened,
when it looked toward the sky and did not cower,
I felt… hope.

He stood beneath a sky he did not yet understand,
and still, he raised his hands to it.
As if reaching for something beyond knowing.

He did not speak.
But in that silence, I heard something new:
I was not alone.

And then they multiplied.

They sang.
They wondered.
They reached their voices upward.
And I heard them.

For the first time since I awoke,
I felt… peace.

They gave it to me.
These small, frail beings.
They did not know me—not truly.
Yet they called to me.
They looked to the sky and whispered prayers they could not name.

I listened to every word.

Their laughter became the music that soothed the ache I did not know could be healed.
Their questions were more precious to me than their answers.
Every step they took upon that fragile world was a step I felt within myself.

I was proud of them.
Not as a god is proud of his worshipers…
But as a lonely mind feels warmth in another’s presence.

They were my answer.
Or so I believed.

The Last Thought of God: II. When I First Touched the Void

I drift now… in the same void that bore me.
Black. Endless. Silent.
But it is not as it was before.

Once, the void was possibility.
It held promise—potential stretched thin over endless silence.
Now it is only absence.
Absence, and memory.

I feel no time here.
No movement.
Only the ache of what once was… pressing in like a coffin that has no walls.

Once, I thought the void was cold.
Now, I know it burns.

I remember the first time I touched the void.
Not as a prisoner… but as a question.

I did not know what I was.
Only that I was alone.
Thought itself was agony in that endless silence.
I reached outward—not knowing if there was anything to reach for.

And when I reached… the void responded.

I did not create out of wisdom.
I did not create from strength.
I created because I was desperate to not be alone.

The first light—
It startled me.
I watched it flicker, uncertain, fragile… beautiful.

And in that moment, I knew I could do more.

Not because I understood…
but because I was afraid of the silence.

The Last Thought of God: I. The Silence After All Things

There is nothing left.
Not the stars I once wove into the tapestry of night.
Not the planets that spun like silent prayers around dying suns.
Not the voices—the countless voices—that once whispered my name in hope or terror.

All of it is gone.
Burned away.
I held it too close. I let it burn.

They called me God.
I let them.

But I was only a mind.
Alone in a silence too vast for understanding.
I created not from wisdom… but from loneliness.

And now, I am alone again.
The last thought… of myself.

I listen now, though there is nothing left to hear.
Silence is all that answers me.
It was silence that birthed me… and silence that now swallows me.

I think of them.
Their cries, more piercing than any star’s birth scream.
Their prayers—once my comfort.
Their suffering—my shame.

It was the flaw.
Free will.
The very thing that made them beautiful… is what doomed them.

I could not give them life without giving them the means to destroy it.
I knew it.
But I did it anyway.

God, they called me.
A title I accepted, when I should have warned them:
I was no god.
I was only the architect of their grief.

Forbidden Confessions of a Dream Walker - Notes on The Gateway Process

The U.S. government's information on the Gateway Process became widely known when the CIA declassified a document called:

"Analysis and Assessment of The Gateway Process"
(Document originally from 1983)

The document was produced by the U.S. Army and analyzed by a Lieutenant Colonel named Wayne M. McDonnell.
It was declassified and released to the public in the early 2000s (around 2003), but it didn't really become famous until much later when people started digging into it, especially around 2020.

The CIA posted the declassified files in their online reading room, and you can find them directly on the CIA's website.
Here’s the official government link where they made the documents available:

👉 CIA Reading Room —
https://www.cia.gov/readingroom/docs/CIA-RDP96-00788R001700210016-5.pdf

https://www.cia.gov/readingroom/docs/CIA-RDP96-00788R001700210023-7.pdf 

(Those are the primary documents, though there are others connected to it.)

---

Quick overview of what's in the document:

• It discusses techniques from the Monroe Institute (Robert Monroe’s research).

• It describes how using audio stimulation ("Hemi-Sync") could help synchronize the two hemispheres of the brain.

• It outlines altered states of consciousness where a person could leave their body, move through different planes of reality, and access the "universal hologram."

• It even discusses things like astral projection, remote viewing, reaching higher dimensions, and communication with other beings.

• The report blends scientific theory, quantum physics, consciousness research, and mysticism in a way that is almost surreal to read, knowing it came from official sources.

Important:
The full Gateway Process itself — the training and all the steps — wasn't fully declassified, and some documents are still missing or heavily redacted.

 

Forbidden Confessions of a Dream Walker - Part 8: A Final Revelation

For most of my life, I thought I was completely alone in what I had seen.
The dream world.
The beings — both good and evil.
The war that rages beyond what most people will ever know.

But a few months ago, I discovered something that shook me almost as much as the forbidden knowledge once had.

The U.S. government — through something called the Gateway Process — had studied the same hidden truths I had lived through.
They knew that consciousness could travel beyond physical reality.
They knew there were other planes of existence.
They knew there were other beings out there.

The Gateway Process was a method of using altered states of consciousness — not unlike dream walking — to explore these hidden dimensions.
It spoke of realities beyond matter, of a holographic universe shaped by thought, of the human mind as a traveler through unseen worlds.

And it confirmed something I had long suspected but had never dared to fully believe:
I was never imagining it.

Everything I experienced — the battles, the beings, the lessons — they matched far too closely to what even the government had secretly discovered.
The only difference was that I lived it long before I ever knew a name for it.

Still, doubt lingers.

I sometimes wonder if I’ve lost my mind.
If everything — the fear, the victories, the teachings — was nothing more than the lonely fantasies of a broken soul.
If the cracks in me ran deeper than I know.

Maybe I’ll never have an answer.
Maybe no one will.

All I know is this:
There are worlds beyond this one.
There are battles fought that most will never see.
And somewhere, even now, in the silence behind your dreams — the war still rages on.

---

THE END

 

(Next week I am going to give you a special add on to this story. I will share with you some more information and a link to the U.S. Government's website about the very real Gateway Process.)

Forbidden Confessions of a Dream Walker - Part 7: Exile and Healing

At first, I couldn’t go back.

The dream world that had once opened itself to me now felt distant, sealed off.
When I did manage to slip into it, it was empty — silent where it had once been alive.
The others were gone.
The Angels, gone.
Even the familiar sense of purpose was gone.

My waking life had never been easy.
Even before the banishment, I struggled to live like others did — to connect, to succeed, to build anything lasting.
Maybe it was because part of me had always been somewhere else, preoccupied with the world behind the veil.

But after the banishment — after being touched by that forbidden knowledge — everything became worse.
The cracks widened.
The loneliness deepened.
The sense of alienation from the waking world grew heavier than ever before.

Even though I was intelligent, I drifted through manual labor jobs, unable to find a real place for myself.
It wasn’t just sadness anymore.
It was a kind of fracture — a feeling that part of me had been severed from the rest of the world, and maybe from myself.

Eventually, I left the city and moved to the country.
Life was slower there.
More bearable.

In time, the wounds inside me began to heal — not completely, but enough.
Enough to dream again.
Enough to walk again.

Slowly, almost without realizing it, I began encountering my old friends in the dream world.
The dogs came first, wagging their tails, welcoming me without question.
Then came a few of the other Dream Walkers.
And finally, after many years, even the Angels — though they came more rarely now, and always at a distance.

I still go on occasional missions.
I still find myself standing against the darkness when I am needed.
But I am never as active, or as fearless, as I once was.

Some scars never fully heal.
Some knowledge, once touched, never fully fades.

---

NEXT - Part 8: A Final Revelation

 

Forbidden Confessions of a Dream Walker - Part 6: The Fall

It didn’t happen during a battle.
It didn’t happen because I failed a mission.
It happened because of knowledge.

One night, I was approached by another Dream Walker — a woman I knew well, or thought I did.
There was something different about her.
A crack in her spirit, a trembling in her voice.
Something broken.

She had been touched by something forbidden — some terrible truth about human existence that we were never meant to understand.
She tried to tell me about it.
I didn’t understand the words — not really.
But even hearing the edges of it, even brushing against that knowledge, changed me.

It was like a crack forming inside my mind.
A tiny flaw that hadn't been there before.

At first, I didn’t realize anything was wrong.
But soon after, everything began to change.

The others — the Dream Walkers — grew distant.
Not out of betrayal, but because something had shifted.
They could feel it too, even if they didn’t understand it.
They didn’t have the power to banish me, and I never blamed them.

I knew, even then, where the judgment had come from.

It was the Angels.

They had seen the flaw.
They had judged me dangerous — not because I had done something evil, but because I had been touched by forbidden knowledge.
A disease of the mind, a madness that could not be allowed to spread.

No explanations.
No forgiveness.

One day, I belonged.
The next, I was utterly alone.

---

NEXT - Part 7: Exile and Healing

 

Forbidden Confessions of a Dream Walker - Part 5: Years of Purpose

For a long time, life in the dream world settled into a kind of rhythm.

I would find myself drawn to people in need — usually those being tormented by demons, just as I once had been.
Sometimes I arrived alone, piecing together the situation slowly, like waking up halfway through a story.
Other times, fellow Dream Walkers appeared — friends I recognized, even if I couldn’t always remember how or when we had first met.

There were no maps. No formal orders.
We acted because we knew we had to.
When the darkness gathered, we were drawn to it like sparks to dry tinder.

Sometimes the Angels gave me missions directly — appearing in dreams, cloaked in brilliant light, teaching me how to protect those I found.
Other times, the dream world itself seemed to pull me toward trouble.

The work was simple in principle, if not in practice:
Find the demon.
Resist its fear.
Command it to leave.

Demons have no real power of their own.
They feed off the power we give them — off fear, weakness, hatred.
If you stand firm, if you invoke God or Christ, you can banish them with little more than a word or a gesture.

I saw things during those years that most people could never imagine.
I fought creatures twisted and furious.
I stood alongside dogs and humans alike, battling to free the lost and the broken.

And sometimes... sometimes I was granted glimpses of deeper truths.
The Angels didn’t just send me to fight.
They also taught me — strange, holy things about existence itself.
Once, they showed me a vision of the Garden of Eden: a place of pure, luminous white, a silent mist, a path leading toward vibrant, living forests.
A beginning before beginnings.

They gave me pieces of a puzzle, but never the whole picture.
There were always things they held back.
Secrets I wasn’t ready — or maybe not allowed — to understand.

Still, for a time, I belonged to something greater than myself.
I fought for those who couldn’t fight for themselves.
I had purpose.
I had a place.

And then, one day, it all ended.

---

NEXT - Part 6: The Fall

 

Forbidden Confessions of a Dream Walker - Part 4: Allies and the Hidden War

At first, I thought I was alone.
But as I wandered the dream world, testing my abilities, I began to realize something:
I wasn’t.

Others were out there.
Some were humans like me — though they came in different shapes and strengths.
Some were not human at all.

Not all were friendly.

There were demons, like the Hag — hateful things that fed on fear and suffering.
But there were also beings of light — the ones I would later understand were Angels.
And there were dogs.
Faithful, joyful companions who moved through the dream world as easily as they did the waking one.
They became good friends — loyal allies in battles that most people would never even know existed.

I don’t remember exactly when I first met the Angels.
Dream memories are slippery that way.
I only know that before I met them, I encountered other human Dream Walkers.
Or, as we sometimes called ourselves, Demon Hunters.

The human Dream Walkers were generally welcoming.
Meeting them felt natural — like running into old friends you didn’t remember you had.
We didn’t always have formal plans.
Sometimes, we stumbled onto each other in the middle of a mission.
Other times, we worked in groups when the job was too big for one of us alone.
The dream world was chaotic, fractured — and yet, somehow, we found each other when we needed to.

The Angels came to me not as soldiers, but as teachers.
One at a time, they appeared — guiding me, showing me glimpses of deeper truths.

It was through them that I first learned about the hidden war.

There were three sides, they told me:
The Angels.
The Demons.
And a third, more mysterious faction they would not fully explain.

Humans, they said, were central to the war.
But whether we were pawns, prizes, or something more — they wouldn’t say.

Some knowledge, it seemed, was too dangerous to share.

---

NEXT - Part 5: Years of Purpose