Silent Truths

The Threshold of Mortality

“People have the same dream every day called life. We have control over who comes in and out of that dream. But when we all go to sleep and begin to dream again, trillions of new, wonderful and frightening worlds are created—because it is not one person dreaming, but billions.

And I know this: when we step through the door of Death, it will be a new dream that never ends.

The familiar people and the glorious or terrifying beings we encounter are the watchers of the Eternal Dream. They see twinkling sparks every second—souls on Earth slipping into their realm.

I’ve seen it in my spirit: each blink is another mortal soul entering the dream that Death has been commanded to open.”

– Darian Ross

Life isn’t real in the way we assume. It’s a long dream—shared, curated, continuous. We build it moment by moment, inviting others in like guests at a theater production. But we are dreaming. And the illusion is so immersive, so potent, that we’ve mistaken it for permanence.

Then, we sleep.

We slip sideways into the true storm of creation. Not just one dream—trillions. Every night, all across the earth, ancient souls and newborn minds conjure fantastical worlds. There are citadels that float on oceans of flame. There are deserts where memory itself burns away under the suns. There are flying beasts stitched together by light and sorrow, and cities filled with laughter that rewrites your entire DNA.

Some dreams are fragile, mere flickers. Others are so detailed, so intricately woven, that they may never cease to exist—dreams so powerful they may continue somewhere without the dreamer. And it’s in these ephemeral realms where we glimpse the blueprint of what comes after.

Because death is not an end. It is the great awakening.

When you step through that final threshold, it is not silence that greets you—it is music you’ve never heard before but somehow remember. It is faces you’ve never seen, but that already know your name.

It is beings that defy description—like Ezekiel’s cherubim with four faces and wheels full of eyes.

“Each had the face of a man, a lion on the right side, an ox on the left, and an eagle at the back. Their legs were straight, feet like polished brass, and under their wings were human hands. The wheels beside them—each intersecting another—moved as the Spirit moved, and the rims were covered in eyes all around” (Ezekiel 1:5–21, paraphrased).

Like the seraphim in Isaiah’s vision, burning with six wings,

“With two wings they covered their faces, with two they covered their feet, and with two they flew. And they called to one another: ‘Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of Hosts; the whole earth is full of His glory!’” (Isaiah 6:2–3).

While their presence shook the very thresholds of the temple apart. And the locusts from Revelation—iron-chested, crowned, with the hair of women and teeth of lions—beings that could only be described in poetry because reality didn’t have words for them.

“They had breastplates like iron, and the sound of their wings was like the thundering of many horses rushing into battle. Their faces were like men, their hair like women, their teeth like lions. They had tails like scorpions and stings that tormented for five months” (Revelation 9:7–10).

And that’s when you realize: the prophets didn’t have visions—they had invasions. Dreams bursting into reality. Holy dreams, hellish dreams, pouring through the seams of human perception.

Can you imagine returning to this world after that? After seeing a sea of glass mingled with fire? After standing before a throne surrounded by creatures that pulse with eternal eyes? Of course they sounded mad. Earth became the lesser dream—the shallow breath compared to the gasp of the eternal.

And even still, for a flickering moment, we sometimes feel it here.

You wake from a dream and question which world is real. Just like the woman who rises in the soft dark and forgets if the child she loved in the dream is gone… or here. That’s the overlap. That’s the veil shifting. That’s the breath of death brushing against your shoulder, not to scare—but to remind.

We are not sleeping—we are waking up.

And if, at times, the path seems uncertain, perhaps that’s only because our language fails to contain the certainty our soul already knows. Perhaps the dream of life feels unstable because it is not the main stage—but the lobby before the doors open.

So when you close your eyes for the final time, do not fear the dark.

Fear nothing.

Because the dark is only the shuttering of one world’s light, so a far greater one can dawn. A world of impossible beasts and holy terror. A world of glowing eyes, forgotten songs, and golden streets that respond to thought. A world where your soul remembers what it was before the flesh dream began.

A world you’ve seen before; that’s been waiting.

The Pan Speaks

And what if Peter Pan was the truest prophet we never noticed?

“To die would be an awfully big adventure.” — Peter Pan, Chapter 8, The Mermaid’s Lagoon, by J.M. Barrie (1911)

Not in despair. Not in resignation. But in reverence.

Because once you’ve seen it—once the veil lifts and the dream behind all dreams hums with light—you stop seeing death as an ending. It becomes the most thrilling crossing of all. A final exhale not into silence, but into symphony. The body may rest, but the soul does not. It ascends—or perhaps, it returns. It passes not into cold darkness, but into color unimaginable. Sounds without origin. Worlds not made of matter, but of meaning.

And adventure becomes the only fitting word.

Think about it: in dreams we fly. In death, we become flight.
In dreams we speak to those who are gone. In death, we remember that we never left them.
In dreams we imagine creatures of heaven and hell—but in death, we walk among them.

And isn’t it just like the Creator to place the truth on the lips of a boy who never grew old?

Peter Pan, grinning at the edge of night, said aloud what many theologians were too afraid to whisper: Death is not to be feared—it is to be met with eyes wide open, like the opening of a book that begins with your real name.

Let the cynics call it fantasy.

The awakened call it truth.

Death’s Commander

And if the Creator of the universe—of all there is and ever will be—shrouds Himself in eternity, if He clothes Himself in light unapproachable, yet stoops low to weave dreams into our fragile minds, to lace life with just enough magic to make us ache for more… then Death, too, is His to command.

– Darian Ross

The veil is thin because He made it so—deliberately, masterfully, with purpose. Not to confuse us, but to awaken us. Life and dreams, waking and sleeping, joy and terror—they are the divine whispers before the trumpet sounds. Death isn’t the breaking of the design. It’s the key in His hand.

“I am the First and the Last. I am He who lives and was dead, and behold—I am alive forevermore. And I hold the keys of Death and the Grave.” (Revelation 1:17–18)

So then, how far can our faith reach?

Do we let it end at the hospital bed? At the still chest? At the urn on the mantelpiece or the polished stone in the earth?

Do we believe in the galaxies of dream that our tiny, finite brains can concoct nightly—but balk at the idea of a consciousness that dreamed us into existence?

Can we really look at the vastness of imagination within our own fragile skulls, conjuring people who never lived, creatures never born, emotions we’ve never felt—but seem to understand—and think that such capacity came from nowhere?

No! Faith cannot end here.

To live only for this flickering breath of time is to ignore the roar behind the curtain. To deny the truth that something—Someone—holds all of it. The dreams, the death, the waking, the wonder. The beginning and the end. Every neuron’s fire and every sun’s burn.

He who allows us to slip between the worlds through the fragile bodily act of death—He is not subject to time. He is not waiting to begin. He is already beyond the finish line. And everything we call imagination is not a trick of the brain but an echo of the eternal voice that sang the universe into being.

Faith isn’t a hope tossed into the sky like a wish on a dying star.

Faith is the soul’s memory of where it came from.

And that memory whispers that death is not a tragedy—it’s a summons.

The Edge of the Dream

So now, stand here with me.

Not on the edge of fear. Not trapped in the soft skepticism that hides behind intellectual shrugs. But on the edge of wonder—of possibility so immense that it humbles galaxies.

Ask yourself: will you truly accept that this—this—life, in all its beautiful chaos and aching brevity, is the only song ever to be sung? That the mind capable of dreaming dragons, of mourning people it’s never met, of imagining love that transcends dimensions … is just a fluke? Just chemistry? Just meat and sparks in a bag of skin?

That’s not science. That’s smallness.

To believe that the universe flared into being from nothing, but your soul has nowhere to go but dust?

To look into the infinite stretch of space, the billions of souls that have walked this earth, the unnameable creatures of Heaven and Hell—and say, “This is all there is”?

No! That’s the arrogance of fear. That’s the pride of comfort. That’s the great sleep we’ve been lulled into.

We were not meant to cower in finality. We were meant to stand in awe. To behold the impossible and call it home. To believe in something far bigger than our short breaths and our numbered years. To walk with trembling joy into the dream that never ends and say, “I knew You were real. I just forgot for a little while.”

Don’t waste your one hundred years—if you’re even that fortunate—clinging to questions that were never meant to be answered here.

Let them lead you to belief.

Because belief is not ignorance. Belief is the most defiant form of wisdom. It is the quiet roar that says,

“I will not reduce the Infinite to the size of my fear.”

Cast aside your resignation. Stop calling yourself “realistic” when you’ve simply lost your taste for wonder. Stand up in your soul and remember:

We are the species that looked at stars and imagined gods. That felt wind and named it spirit. That touched fire and saw it as sacred. That looked at death and said: What an awfully big adventure.

We were born not just to survive, but to believe in what can’t be seen—to reach for the ungraspable, to imagine worlds within worlds, and to recognize that even our dreams are evidence of a Designer who hides wonder in everything.

So if there is a veil … Pull it aside.

If there is a door … Step through it.

And if there is doubt … Let it be consumed by awe.

Because you weren’t made to live for this world alone, you were made for The Great Awakening!