This writing is a record of my own experience, not a claim of belief or doctrine.
I am not the Creator. I simply share what I have encountered.
Readers are free to interpret in their own way and take only what resonates.
The writings are still unfolding. In time, everything will reveal itself naturally.

I have many memories of my dreams.

Dreams —
the mysterious realm everyone visits while asleep.

For me, dreams are as vivid and clear as reality.
When I awaken, I don't simply think, "It was just a dream."
Instead, I feel disoriented, as if I’ve been transported elsewhere.

There are friends I left behind in dreams,
times when I ran desperately from threatening beings,
or moments when I awoke from deep suffering in chaotic worlds.

Every detail — the space, the colors, the scents, the emotions, and even the sensations of the body —
feels no different from waking life.

Only much later did I realize
these dreams sometimes revealed and allowed me to experience fragments of the future.

What about your dreams?
Do they ever feel as vivid and real?
Have you, perhaps, returned to the same dream
to continue its story as though it naturally unfolds night after night?

In this space,
I will often share such stories from my dreams.

These dreams have deeply shaped my inner world
and are intimately connected to my meditative journey.

From time to time,
I will bring these stories here to share with you.

This writing is a record of my own experience, not a claim of belief or doctrine.
I am not the Creator. I simply share what I have encountered.
Readers are free to interpret in their own way and take only what resonates.
The writings are still unfolding. In time, everything will reveal itself naturally.

The earliest dreams I can remember
date back to when I was around three or four years old.
Because I clearly remember the period before and after my younger sibling was born,
these impressions feel more substantial than vague traces of early childhood.

As a child, I often woke up on my own at dawn.
In that in-between time—when night had not fully left and morning had not yet arrived—
I would lie awake quietly between my parents’ legs.

During those moments, a strange sensation was always present.
It was clearly different from the feeling of encountering another person.
I could not conceptualize what it was,
but I knew with certainty that it was not human.
At the time, the awareness was simple:
it felt unwelcome, unsettling,
and directed toward me with a certain intention.

This sensation did not completely disappear as I grew older.
Both in dreams and while awake,
I would sometimes sense that “something was looking for me.”
There was no voice and no visible form.

What stood out was that these experiences
were not limited to darkness or night.
They occurred more frequently during the day,
especially when sunlight was strong
and my senses felt open and alert.

I was a quiet child.
I preferred sitting alone with books, drawing, or toys
rather than running and playing with others.
Naturally, I spent more time within my inner awareness than outward activity.

At some point,
I began to feel that space itself was aware of me.

That space did not feel fixed like walls or objects.
It felt closer to water—
like the sea, with its flow and rhythm,
more fluid than solid.

Although it could not be touched,
its texture was sensed as something soft and elastic,
similar to silicone.
Sometimes the entire space felt like a single mass,
and at other times,
specific areas felt as though they were observing me.

It felt as if the space had expression or character,
yet it was entirely different from human emotion or thought.
It was not language,
but rather a very simple,
highly compressed form of communication
that carried multiple meanings at once.

I tried to dismiss these experiences.
I shook my head to regain focus
and moved from place to place.
Yet even as the surroundings changed,
the sensation remained.

This record is not an attempt to explain or define those experiences.
It is simply an effort
to preserve the state of perception
as it was at that time.

This writing is a record of my own experience, not a claim of belief or doctrine.
I am not the Creator. I simply share what I have encountered.
Readers are free to interpret in their own way and take only what resonates.
The writings are still unfolding. In time, everything will reveal itself naturally.

When I speak of my childhood, I cannot separate it from dreams.
Among them, the most powerful symbol was always the white hole.
For me, fear was not associated with darkness, but with brightness.
A brightness so intense, so beautiful, that it pulled me into a deep and overwhelming sense of dread.
This dream began when I was around five years old.
It continued into adulthood.
For more than twenty years, it appeared almost daily.
On some days, it occurred several times.
At the very least, it appeared once a day.
The structure of the dream was consistent.
A completely white space, like an untouched canvas.
Soon, the space began to rotate like a vast vortex.
I stood at the outermost edge, slowly entering the rotation.
As the speed increased, I was drawn inward.
There was little sound.
There were no clear forms.
Yet among all the nightmares I experienced,
this was the deepest and most encompassing fear.
The dream did not end when I woke up.
If I fell asleep again, it resumed.
At times, even while awake,
a brief shift of attention was enough
to reconnect me to that rotating structure.
It felt less like a dream
and more like repeated access to a specific energetic pattern.
In the dream, I was not myself as I appeared in waking life.
Though I was Asian in reality,
I was always a white, short-haired girl in the dream.
I knew I was myself,
yet it felt as though I inhabited a different body.
Then they appeared.
Five to seven figures in white dresses.
They were neither human nor ghost,
neither male nor female.
They did not speak.
But when they extended their hands,
an unseen force pulled me deeper inside.
Within that rotation, one sensation was constant.
If I crossed a certain point,
I would be separated from my family and this world.
That certainty never wavered.
Around the age of fourteen,
the repetition exhausted me.
For the first time, I told my mother about the dream.
She did not react with alarm.
She smiled and said,
“That’s interesting.
Let’s start writing a dream journal and turn it into a story someday.
Later, we can talk about it with a psychiatrist.”
That response became a turning point.
I decided
not to avoid the dream,
but to observe it.
As that decision grew stronger than fear,
the dream gradually lost its grip.

This writing is a record of my own experience, not a claim of belief or doctrine.
I am not the Creator. I simply share what I have encountered.
Readers are free to interpret in their own way and take only what resonates.
The writings are still unfolding. In time, everything will reveal itself naturally.

This story records how I healed and transformed myself through dreams.

My dreams were unlike ordinary dreams.
They were so vivid that the boundary between reality and the unreal disappeared.
Waking up often felt like returning from another dimension.
The emotions, colors, sounds, and physical sensations within the dreams were clear,
and their influence lingered after waking,
emotionally and sometimes physically.

Around the age of nine, I began having recurring war nightmares.
Violent scenes from war films repeatedly shown at school
settled deep into my consciousness
and continued within my dreams.

In the dream, my family was attacked.
I hid inside a wardrobe,
unable to act,
forced to witness everything.
The death of my younger sister left me with overwhelming guilt.
The same dream repeated on the following night.

On the third night, I prayed to dream it again.
When the scene returned,
I finally broke out of the wardrobe
and begged the attackers.
Please spare my sister.
I will die instead.

In the dream, I died.
The pain lingered in my body for days afterward.
At the same time,
the deep guilt that had lived inside me was released.

Through this experience, I came to understand something clearly.
Dreams are spaces of consciousness one can re-enter.
Choices within them can be changed.
And those changes are directly connected
to the emotional structure of waking life.

After that,
I began working with my inner patterns through dreams.
My difficulty refusing others,
my inability to express anger,
and emotional habits repeated in relationships
were first altered within dreams.
When change occurred inside,
reality followed.

Not all of my dreams are included here.
Some were too personal or too unreal to share.

But the essence I wish to convey is simple.
Reality, dreams, imagination,
and dimensions beyond our current perception
are not separate.
They continuously influence one another.

Within that flow,
I changed myself.

This writing is a record of my own experience, not a claim of belief or doctrine.
I am not the Creator. I simply share what I have encountered.
Readers are free to interpret in their own way and take only what resonates.
The writings are still unfolding. In time, everything will reveal itself naturally.

At the age of ten, in the third grade.
The classroom, the desks, the faces of my classmates remain vivid.
At that time, I was constantly questioning something within myself.

Why does war happen.
Why does money cause people pain.
What exists after death.
Why is the sky above and the ground below.

The deeper I pursued these unanswered questions,
the more pain arose in my head.
It was not a physical headache,
but a form of resistance that appeared
when consciousness exceeded what it could contain.

One day, exhausted by thought,
I rested my head on my desk.
In that moment,
I unintentionally entered a visualized space of consciousness.

My mind became an old attic,
and my eyes became windows.
The attic was tucked into the corner of an old Western-style house.
Dust-covered sofas, a piano,
a desk, furniture draped in cloth.
The floor was wooden,
and the air held traces of suspended time.

Inside that space,
I opened a window.
Sunlight poured in.
I brushed away dust,
wiped the floor,
and cleaned the glass.

These actions were not physical movements,
but a process of refining emotional energy.
The cleared space, the light,
the white cloth
signaled a reorganization of inner order.

In the end,
I understood something clearly.
Emotions can be regulated,
and the key lies not outside,
but within.

This was not a philosophical belief
or a conceptual conclusion.
It was the discovery of a self-restorative mechanism,
confirmed through direct experience.

Afterward,
I attempted to enter the same state again,
but failed repeatedly.
The reason was clear.
Expectation itself became noise,
blocking access to the inner space.

After that realization,
I did not remain with a single method.
I explored other approaches,
which led to a diversification of consciousness training.

What I encountered through that space
was not merely emotional release.
It was an understanding of how mental structures operate,
and the possibility of autonomous intervention within them.

I sometimes consider that certain events in dreams
are not symbols,
but may be realities of another dimension.
This understanding came not from interpretation,
but from direct experience.

One day in a dream,
I was crouching on the ground,
laughing and playing
with a small white rabbit and a puppy.
In that moment,
we did not perceive one another as different beings.
The distinction between human and animal
did not exist there.

Then,
a middle-aged man appeared in the distance,
walking toward us.
He looked ordinary,
nothing about him seemed remarkable.
Yet as he approached,
something began to rise
from the deeper layers of his presence.

It appeared as tangled strands of energy
woven around him.
Thousands of thin lines
were twisted in sharp, irregular patterns,
forming a structure in themselves.

That structure resembled
an informational system of existence,
where emotions, tendencies, choices,
memories, and actions
were revealed as waves.

The structure of a being
who had lived gently and peacefully
was organically aligned,
composed mainly of curves,
forming a coherent whole.
In contrast,
the structure of a being
shaped by cruelty and anger
was jagged and strained,
its edges turned outward,
as if its inner violence
had broken through the surface.

The man’s structure belonged to the latter.

At the same moment,
the rabbit, the puppy, and I
read his information.
It reached my consciousness
faster than light,
all at once.

Like a compressed executable file
that unfolds instantly when opened,
his personality,
repetitive emotional patterns,
behavioral trajectories,
degree of cruelty,
the way he treated humans and animals,
even his habits of living,
were perceived simultaneously
as a single pattern.

In that instant,
the rabbit, the puppy, and I
screamed and trembled together.

Then I woke from the dream.
Even after opening my eyes,
it took a long time
to steady my breath.

After that day,
though never as clearly as in dreams,
I began to partially perceive
the informational structures of people
even in waking life.

Through this experience,
I realized that the world can be perceived
through means beyond the physical senses.
Yet it was a perception
I wished to dull,
even intentionally.

The resonance of emotions contained
within another’s information
brought profound exhaustion.

I had a dream.

There was a version of me observing the dream,
and another version of me inside it.
Two selves overlapped,
existing at the same time.

After drifting briefly through that space,
a simple intention arose:
to move to another world.
With that thought alone,
I arrived in a completely different place.
It was filled with a bright, transparent atmosphere.

A man approached me there.
He wore light-colored clothing
and held a medium-sized dog in both hands.

He had no face.
His body existed only up to the neck.
Above that was empty space.
Yet in that faceless place,
I clearly sensed a smile.
There was no form,
but the emotion was unmistakable.

That smile caused
a confusion more fundamental than fear.

With one hand,
he placed his fingers on the dog’s eye
and began to remove it,
slowly.
The dog struggled,
but his other hand held the body firmly,
making resistance impossible.

I witnessed the scene
both as the self inside the dream
and as a non-physical observer.
I knew I had to intervene,
yet the shock froze my body completely.

The version of me in the dream
opened its mouth in a silent scream
and wept,
but no sound emerged.

After everything was over,
the man continued to look at me,
still smiling.
He had no face,
yet the smile was undeniable.

I woke up.
I looked around the room
and gripped my own arm
to confirm that I was awake.

Then I understood.
The faceless being
was mocking me,
a being confined within the illusion of the body.

Even now, I remember the message
he left without a face.

The body does not exist.