Truth is Mysterious

 I came here from many places, not to understand myself, but to understand a dream that was given to me — a dream so vivid I could not ignore it. It felt as if the Father of Heaven, the keeper of our hidden truths, came to me in the night and said, “You will die.”

I answered, “I can’t die. I have a wife. I have a life.”  

But the voice insisted: “When you wake, it will happen.”

So in the dream, I searched for a place to hide — a place where I could watch people pass by without being seen. The more distorted their faces became, the more I feared what I might see in my own reflection.

Before I could look into the mirror, everything went dark.

I woke inside the dream as if already dead — unable to speak, unable to see, unable to move. I felt myself stretching backward into a void, and in that void I saw the layers of this world folding over each other: the ugly turning into the beautiful, the darkness touching the light, the threshold where pain and joy meet.

For a moment, I felt free.

Then something pulled me back.

I was dragged toward the place I had come from, and I saw people hurting each other — innocent lives taken, children crying because they didn’t understand why the people they trusted were causing them pain. Their cries cut deeper than anything else.

I passed a mirror and finally saw myself.

I saw many faces — all afraid of tomorrow.

People ran from me, as if they recognized me from their own nightmares. In their dreams, I appeared after they had done harm, a silent witness they could not escape.

Objects passed through me like cold wind. My body grew numb. In the dream, I felt myself struck again and again, until numbers no longer mattered. I saw myself lying in a casket, people walking by — some angry, some indifferent. I wanted to escape that place. I couldn’t bear it.

I cried out — upward to heaven, downward to the depths — begging anyone to take me away from the suffering.

And then everything shifted.

I was being rushed to a hospital.

In the dream, they said I had many wounds and that I was found holding the knife myself. When I finally stood again, anger rose in me — not because I wanted to harm anyone, but because I should have killed that bastard who stabbed me.,,