Estimated reading time — 3 minutes
I’ve heard there are two kinds of people: those who have vivid dreams, dreams of things and events, some impossible some mundane, some joyous some horrible — and those who have the same kinds of dreams but don’t remember them. I’d give anything if I could fit into either category.
I remember my dreams, but “dreams” is a misnomer; it’s the same dream every night. And it’s not even a dream of a series of events. It’s just a snapshot, a moment, a flash photo. But it’s a snapshot I can’t look away from, an eternal moment in which I experience indescribable horror. I can’t remember not having this dream. It’s been my companion my whole life.
I’m in some room I don’t recognize, and in the middle there’s a kind of hole or vortex, but it’s not a physical hole. And out of it is arising some horrific monstrosity. It doesn’t see me yet, but it’s about to turn its attention to me. And I know that when it perceives me, it will take me to hell with it to experience unbearable torment for eternity. It’s the moment before the demon sees me. And I’m filled with an absolute terror, the terror of someone who knows he is damned forever.
Every … single … night.
Ironically, as a teenager, I started getting very interested in the occult. You’d think my dream would have had an adverse affect on that, but, for whatever reason, I just never connected the two until much later (and when I did, it wasn’t in the way you’d expect). It certainly didn’t spark my interest. But as I grew older, I pursued my occultic activities more and more. By my early thirties, I was already one of the more advanced students in the craft.
By my late thirties, however, I noticed something disturbing about my dream. It wasn’t exactly the same. I remember as a child the demon was facing away from me — not that it had a face, but its attention was on the opposite side of the room from where I was standing. But now, it had turned. Its attention was on the side of the room to my right. It was still just a snapshot, but I could tell it was in the process of turning to face me and be aware of me, and I knew the moment it did what would happen.
I started thinking that my dream was a premonition. This was my destiny, my doom. Yet I didn’t have the power in me to move off of the path I was on, to avoid such a confrontation. It was almost as if the dream and my life had no connection. I was barely able to bring my dream to mind during my day-to-day activities. When I turned fifty, I realized the demon had almost completed the turn. Its attention was almost upon me.
But then my conception of the dream started changing. I had been thinking that my life was the reality and the dream was a foreshadow or a message from another time in my life. But the opposite was the case. The dream was the reality and my life was just a message. I don’t mean that my life was just a shadow of some deeper reality, although I suspect that’s true. I mean something even weirder.
You know how some people say that when you die your life flashes before your eyes? That’s what my life was. I was living, reliving, my life in the moment before the demon saw me. I was experiencing my life flashing before my eyes. The dream that I’d been having all my life wasn’t a dream. It was the present moment. I had been playing with religion and had summoned a demon that would take me to hell. And in my final moment, my life was replaying itself.
Except there was a difference. If you keep choosing to be angry, or hateful, you’ll eventually reach the point where you can no longer choose not to be angry or hateful. Slowly, as we live our lives, we are taking away our own freedoms, and eventually becoming the people we will be forever. I had spent nearly all my life making particular choices and selecting certain courses of action. I realize now that my choices were not just a turning towards the occult, but a running away from — I don’t even want to say the word — God. I had been rejecting him with every conscious thought for so long that I was no longer able to accept him. I had taken away my ability to choose him.
And yet, somehow, I realize now as I approach my doom, that I am being given the power to choose God. I don’t want to choose him. But I know that I can. I am being buoyed up so that the effects of a lifetime spent rejecting him no longer force me to continue to do so. I can choose. I can actually choose.
And a still, small voice inside me asks: What do you choose?
Credit To – Jim S.