It’s been some time since I last wrote — longer than I intended. The reason isn’t a lack of unusual experiences; in truth, it’s the opposite. Since my last letter, the dreams, encounters with the supernatural, and mystical episodes have continued, but they’ve reached a point where they have begun to exhaust me. I found myself overwhelmed, confused, and even tempted to shut these experiences out entirely. A part of me longed for the simplicity of ignorance — an ordinary life untouched by questions that bend the boundaries of reality.

And yet, despite my resistance, something in me has been urging me to continue documenting these experiences. To examine them rather than avoid them. In the years since I last published anything, I’ve still maintained a steady practice of recording every dream, encounter, and anomalous experience. I have also begun mapping the recurring characters who appear throughout these events — cataloging their traits, symbolic roles, and emotional significance. The archive has now grown into a document exceeding ninety pages, spanning nearly a decade of material. And throughout it all, one subject keeps resurfacing with increasing clarity: the possibility of multiple realities.

I first explored this idea in Letter 17, where I proposed that alternative timelines may not be science fiction, but a natural extension of consciousness itself—especially when viewed through the lens of consciousness's ability to operate beyond traditional space and time. This notion is echoed in the Gateway Tapes, and further supported in Robert Monroe’s research into out-of-body states and nonphysical realms.

In this letter, I want to revisit that theory through the lens of my previous experience back in 2024, and a couple of new experiences — one that has expanded and, in some ways, confirmed my previous insights.

Experience 1:  Letter 17 (2024) 

I recall the dream initiating with me aboard a swiftly moving bus, accompanied by a woman. The urgency was palpable, likely due to the imminent crash the bus seemed destined for. As I glanced down at the roof's surface, I noticed several black squares scattered across it. I approached one of these squares, sensing a vortex pulling me in. Aware that entering would terminate the current experience, I swiftly made the decision and immersed my face into the black square, feeling my consciousness detach from my body.

I found myself in a void, surrounded by emptiness yet conscious of my existence. I thought maybe I had died. But gradually, my surroundings morphed, akin to rendering a new video game environment. Before me stood a bedroom, evoking a sense of entering a new realm. Anthony, an old friend, joined me, and we were both taken aback to discover we had slept for 12 hours. The clock's erratic time display hinted at the dissolution of temporal constraints.

Exploring further, I navigated through what felt like an apartment, its lighting, and colors reminiscent of a cyberpunk era. Entering another room, I encountered its occupant, with whom I shared a familiar rapport. It was clear that we were good friends in this universe, but I had never seen this person in my waking life. I shared with him the sequence of recent events, but he indicated that he couldn't perceive any abnormalities when I was asleep during these "universe jumps." Despite my attempts to delve deeper, he remained silent. Puzzled, I glanced at the clock — 3:49 AM — and excused myself, sensing his need to call his girlfriend.

As I wandered, contemplating whether to call my own girlfriend, I noticed a text from my friend Matt, expressing concern about my well-being. Suddenly, another friend, Ben, appeared, and we exchanged greetings. I then Face-timed my girlfriend and saw a different version of her — black-haired and speaking differently. She strummed her guitar, intending to share a new song, but as she descended the stairs, she stumbled, and I abruptly awoke to reality, the clock displaying 3:49 AM.

Experience 2:  November 2025

The setting began in the basement of Ave, who often appears in my dreams as a teacher archetype. We were engaged in a conversation that felt meaningful, as if we were discussing our connection across multiple realities.

I remember telling him that I believed we shared a soul connection. He laughed at first, dismissive but not unkind. Then he paused, reconsidered, and seemed to acknowledge, almost reluctantly, that perhaps I wasn’t as crazy as he assumed. It felt like we were openly discussing why this connection persisted, no matter which world we were in.

We compared phones. He had an iPhone. I had a small, thin, rectangular device with barely any screen, almost futuristic. I joked about how ridiculous mine was and how much better his screen looked. In hindsight, this detail makes me question whether this implied that I wasn’t originally from that reality.

Apparently, there was a party happening, a gathering for someone we used to know. Ave asked if I wanted to go. I hesitated. Something in me sensed that I wouldn’t feel comfortable there, but he seemed confident he could get me in if I chose to go. At some point, the conversation mentioned a group chat with old friends. Naturally, I was no longer part of it. I made a sarcastic comment, and Ave responded by recalling an event I had no memory of in this reality. He said that years ago, he showed a girl he hooked up with in the chat, and out of everyone’s comments, mine were the meanest. I have no recollection of this.

Suddenly, we were there. The party was filled with familiar people.  I tried to speak with an old friend of mine, Juice, but nothing of substance came of it. At one point, he did something rude involving my sister, whom I was surprised to see present, and that triggered something in me. I remember attacking him, kicking and beating him. He did not fight back. Then a group of Asian guys — strangers — charged at me, but I somehow fought them off. Surprisingly, none of this startles the partygoers. 

I remember entering a room that I instinctively felt could “transport” me out of that world. But people were inside, hooking up, so I couldn’t use it.

Then I spoke with another friend of mine, Corn, who was with Iggy, another old friend of mine. Corn said he loved this world because of its technology. I don’t remember much of the details after that, except the clear sense that I needed to escape. My earlier actions had apparently angered someone, and now people were chasing me. I hid behind porta-potty-like structures while two figures searched for me.

Without warning, I shifted into another version of reality. The environment looked similar but slightly altered. Corn and Iggy were there again. I tested something. I mentioned technology, referring to his earlier comment, and Corn responded: “This place? It’s… ehh.”

I paused. “What do you mean?”

He shot back, almost annoyed: “You know exactly what I mean. Why are you pretending you don’t? You asked me this before.”

Iggy started laughing — not at me, but knowingly. It was the laugh of someone in on the secret.

I asked them, “How do you guys know about this?” referring to reality jumping.

Iggy shrugged, gave a vague answer about liking to party. It didn’t address my question at all.

Then Corn said something — one final line I can’t recall — that confirmed everything: I had jumped realities. And he remembered. That last sentence, whatever it was, washed over me like a release. A calm transition. A peaceful dissolution of that world. And just like that, I woke up — in this reality.

Commentary

Both experiences share a striking common thread: an active awareness — both mine and that of others — of realities that exist beyond our traditional, waking world. In Letter 17, the phenomenon I interpret as a transition between parallel realities is explicitly acknowledged by the unknown individual who refers to it as “universe jumps.” This direct recognition suggests not only that the experience is real within that dimension, but also that those present understand its mechanics.

In the second experience, the awareness is evident once more. My mind recognizes immediately that I have shifted into another reality, yet the surrounding characters, Corn and Iggy, also demonstrate an uncanny ability to perceive it. Without stating it outright, their reactions imply they know exactly what occurred. Their laughter feels almost teasing, as though they are accustomed to this phenomenon and I’m the one behind — perhaps, even, foolish for believing I’m the sole participant capable of such an experience.

These encounters raise profound questions about the nature of consciousness and its ability to move across multiple realities. In the following sections, I will explore these experiences in greater depth and examine what these dimensions may represent. Before doing so, however, it is necessary to address a foundational question: How is it even possible for consciousness to experience more than one reality?

When Consciousness Leaves the Body

The first experience vividly demonstrates the separation between body and mind. In it, I am pulled through a vortex — a black square functioning like a dimensional aperture — and I feel my consciousness detach from my physical form. In that void, I can hear myself breathing and thinking, yet I have no body. I am not afraid. The sensation is strangely familiar, as if I have undergone this process many times before. The only other moment in my life that resembles this occurred during the near-death experience described in Letter 3:

“However, when I shut my eyes, I saw space with stars everywhere. It felt like I was one with space as I traveled through it. The best way to describe this would be to think of your consciousness being removed from your body and traveling through the universe. My brain began to process that I was experiencing death and started to freak out. I tried my best not to die, pleading instantly, thinking about my family and the damage it would do to them. But another voice told me to let go and not fight it. I knew there was no point in fighting this, so I let go and felt a strange feeling of peace.”

In that earlier experience, fear dominated. In the more recent one (Letter 17), the void brought only calm recognition — as though the process was routine. Looking back with new understanding, I believe that near-death moment may have been my first true glimpse of the mind separating from the body. A lesson possibly even emerges here: even as the body approaches death, consciousness continues — moving through space, time, or whatever lies beyond both.

Revisiting Letter 17, after drifting in the void, my surroundings begin to pixelate and render, much like a video game, constructing a new environment. Suddenly, I find myself in a different place, one that is familiar to “that me” in that world, but, as an outsider observing this experience, completely new. I would hypothesize that this is an entirely different dimension, which I will further discuss later. 

From these two experiences alone, I’ve come to speculate that the human body within the waking world — what I will refer to as “ground reality” — functions as an avatar. It allows consciousness to experience reality through the five traditional senses. The purpose of this reality is still up for debate. Perhaps it is the primary plane for human growth and learning. Or perhaps it is simply one of many similar experiential layers. At this stage of my investigation, I find myself drawn to an interpretation that appears — often with striking consistency — across the world’s contemplative and mystical traditions: that physical incarnation, our embodied life in this manifest world, serves as the primary arena where the soul’s (or consciousness’s) deepest lessons are confronted, integrated, and transformed. This is not to say these traditions are identical, nor that they claim this world is the only reality. Rather, when surveyed together, a remarkable convergence emerges. 

In Christianity, earthly life is the realm of trial, choice, and sanctification;¹ in Buddhism and Hinduism, human birth is uniquely suited for liberation and karmic resolution;² in Kabbalah, Earth is the locus of tikkun, the repair of the soul;³ in Sufism, this realm is the furnace in which the heart is polished;⁴ and in Steiner’s anthroposophy, Earth is the pivotal planetary incarnation where freedom and love are first fully and consciously developed in cosmic evolution.⁵

Modern depth psychology and existential spirituality echo the same motif. For Jung, true individuation requires the friction of lived earthly experience;⁶ for Campbell, the hero’s journey always returns with the boon to the ‘ordinary world,’ where transformation is realized and shared.⁷

Thus, even though many of these traditions acknowledge higher or subtler realms — some even describing them as more eternal or ontologically fundamental — the consistent testimony remains: this dense, temporal, embodied reality is the decisive theater of transformation. It is here, and, in the testimony of most of these traditions — uniquely or decisively here — that symbolic potentials become lived truths, karmic patterns are worked through, and lessons are not merely glimpsed but fully integrated into the evolution of the soul.

It is also in this dense reality — and I choose the word “dense” deliberately, as it stands in stark contrast to the lighter states I’ve experienced elsewhere — that the familiar constraints of linear time and Newtonian laws fully apply. In the other dimensions I’ve encountered, those rules no longer hold. For example, in Letter 17, I write: "The clock's erratic time display hinted at the dissolution of temporal constraints.” 

Similarly, in Letter 11, I experienced a dimension that mirrored ground reality almost perfectly, except for a peculiar lightness: “While upstate, I was sleeping in bed beside my girlfriend. I recall entering a state where I could hear a dog, even though I couldn't see it. I could sense it drawing nearer to me and my girlfriend in the bed. I remember turning to my girlfriend, who was peacefully asleep. It is important to note that my environment offered no indications that this could be a dream. The only aspect that felt peculiar was the lightness of this space or dimension. Gradually, the dog's presence approached me closely, causing me to abruptly transition and break free from this state. The shift from whatever state I had been into the 3D reality was so subtle that distinguishing what was real and what wasn't became challenging. I remember waking up my girlfriend and asking if anything unusual happened last night, but she replied no.”

This raises an essential question: What exactly are these other dimensions, and why do they exist at all? Based on my experiences, I currently theorize the existence of at least three distinct dimensional types, each fulfilling a different function.

• Testing Grounds: Dimensions that function as emotional, intellectual, and psychological training environments. Unresolved issues, conflicts, fears, or lessons often play out here so they can be processed more deeply before manifesting in ground reality.
  

• Overlook: A higher-order dimension where experiences are reviewed and integrated — a realm where the higher self or “soul team” resides. This is most apparent in Letter 17, when I return from an experience and discuss its meaning with a group that seems to supervise or guide my development.
  

• Collective Shared Dimension: This dimension appears to be a parallel version of ground reality that multiple consciousnesses can access at once. Unlike typical dreams, it feels inhabited, stable, and consistent, with people behaving as if they remember events from previous timelines or jumps. It seems to function as a shared arena for collective learning, parallel-life exploration, and cross-timeline interaction.

Testing Ground

The testing ground is a dimension designed for the development of skills that an individual has not yet developed in the ground reality. These are often capacities blocked by fear, trauma, or past experiences — limitations that stall growth and keep a person in cycles of stagnation or regression. Within the testing ground, consciousness can rehearse, confront, or resolve these blocks in an environment that mirrors — but does not perfectly replicate — events from waking life.

A possible example appears in Letter 6: Mental Time Travel, where I revisit earlier school years with Ave as a guide. Though the scenes resemble fragmented real memories, they are subtly altered, as if the dimension reconstructs them for the purpose of healing rather than accuracy. At the time, I interpreted this as “mental time travel,” a psychological revisiting of past moments to make peace with them. I still believe that aspect is true, but now see it as only one layer of a larger process. Looking back now, through the lens of dimensional theory, these experiences also appear to resemble testing-ground timelines — constructed scenarios meant to facilitate emotional correction, integration, and personal evolution that later influence my ground reality. Mental time travel, in this view, becomes one feature of a broader dimensional function.

Another function of these dimensions may be the simultaneous playing out of multiple timelines, allowing consciousness to learn and process at accelerated rates. This could explain intuition —“gut feelings” may be the residue of lessons already lived elsewhere. In Letter 17, when I find myself atop a speeding bus before transitioning into the overlook dimension, the abrupt exit suggests that whatever lesson that reality was providing had already been completed or integrated.

As noted before, time behaves differently across dimensions. While our physical body sleeps, our consciousness may be engaging in several developmental timelines at once, each contributing to who we become upon waking.

Overlook

The Overlook is best understood as the operational center through which consciousness navigates and coordinates multiple realities. It functions as a vantage point — a place where experiences are processed, decisions are evaluated, and lessons are integrated before being carried back into ground reality. A useful parallel is found in Everything Everywhere All at Once, where an alternate-reality “command van” serves as the nexus from which characters access and influence their other selves across the multiverse. The film illustrates the same principle: there exists a central dimension responsible for managing the jumping, observing the outcomes, and guiding the traveler.

In my own experience, described in Letter 17, something similar appears to unfold. Upon returning to the apartment, I spoke with an individual who casually mentioned “universe jumps,” suggesting both awareness of and monitoring of my transitions. This suggests the presence of observers, or overseers, who ensure the journey unfolds safely. Furthermore, when the environment fully rendered and I found a friend lying in the adjacent bed, we both recognized that we had been “under,” or timeline-jumping, for an extended period. These moments hint at a structured support system within the Overlook — what I interpret as a soul team — that aids, witnesses, and guides each other’s multidimensional growth.

Collective Shared Dimension

The collective shared dimension is the most complex and elusive of the three realms I have come to identify through my experiences. Unlike the testing-ground dimensions — which feel psychologically tailored to the individual and populated by symbolic figures whose behavior reflects the lesson at hand — the collective dimension appears to be inhabited by fully autonomous individuals. Here, friends, acquaintances, and even strangers do not behave like projections of my psyche; instead, they act as conscious participants, aware of themselves, their environment, and at times even the metaphysical nature of what is occurring. The vividness, coherence, and emotional realism of these encounters set this realm apart from ordinary dreaming.

More importantly, this dimension consistently gives the impression that multiple souls are occupying the same experiential field. Those present express confusion, humor, irritation, hurt, and insight in ways that surprise me — reactions I do not anticipate, control, or consciously generate. Unlike the testing-ground realm, where characters seem to exist primarily to serve a lesson, the individuals here appear to possess their own intentions, memories, and unfolding narratives independent of my presence.

One example occurred on February 9th, 2025, in a dream preceding the experience I described earlier. I found myself in a prison-like environment surrounded by friends from my childhood: Corn, Bradley, Messi, Naz, and others. They interacted with one another casually, even ordering pizza, as though this were an ordinary gathering rather than a dream. When I asked aloud why I was there, the others looked at me with genuine confusion, interpreting my question not symbolically but as a rude or strange comment — exactly as real people would.

A particularly striking moment involved a conversation with Messi, a lifelong friend with whom I have experienced real periods of distance. I asked him, “Do you know there’s a timeline where you and I don’t talk anymore?” His expression reflected genuine emotional pain. This did not feel like a dream-symbol reacting — it felt like a conscious individual recognizing a difficult truth across timelines.

The dream even contained a meta-awareness: several individuals and I openly acknowledged that these experiences were “shared.” This idea was reinforced in an interaction with Gabs, a recurring dream figure I have long associated with the anima. When I told her she appeared prominently in my dreams, she replied that another man appeared frequently in hers. This statement implies that it is possible every soul possesses its own dream-worlds and testing dimensions, populated by figures that may serve symbolic roles for them even if those same figures appear unaware in other realms. A character like Gabs can appear across my experiences without her conscious awareness of it — suggesting either symbolic function or multidimensional fragmentation.

Another example comes from experience two with Ave, who referenced an incident — my allegedly harsh comment about a girl he was involved with — that I have absolutely no memory of in waking reality. Yet, he spoke of it with the certainty of someone recalling a real event. This asymmetry of memory implies that we may be interacting across overlapping dimensions in ways that one or both of us recall only partially.

Taken together, these experiences point toward a dimension that functions as a shared classroom of consciousness — a realm where individuals come together to resolve interpersonal tensions, confront truths, and integrate lessons across multiple timelines. Its defining characteristics include the autonomy of its participants, the heightened realism of the environment, and the mutual (or semi-mutual) awareness of multidimensional existence. In this sense, the collective shared dimension serves as a meeting ground for souls, a place where relational threads from various realities converge to foster growth, reconciliation, and understanding. 

Summary

I want to end this essay on an important note. Everything discussed here — every theory, every interpretation — is rooted in my direct personal experience. I’m aware that some “experts” may feel inclined to dismiss or pathologize experiences that fall outside accepted frameworks. But the truth is this: an experience cannot be discredited by someone who did not live it. Academic models can be useful, but they are not the sole arbiters of reality. Too often, we place unquestioning trust in institutional authority, forgetting that our most intimate source of knowledge is what we encounter firsthand.

Throughout history, human understanding has advanced because individuals were willing to take their inner experiences seriously: mystics, philosophers, scientists, and seekers alike. I believe God allows us to experience realities that stretch beyond conventional understanding, not to confuse us, but to expand our sense of what is possible. These moments, however strange, often carry truths that cannot be measured by instruments or validated by consensus.

The best thing we can do is continue to speak openly about these experiences, to compare notes with others who have encountered similar states, and to create spaces where such conversations are treated with curiosity rather than ridicule. In doing so, we move closer not only to understanding consciousness but to understanding why it was given to us at all.

Footnotes

¹ See, e.g., Catechism of the Catholic Church §§ 302–314 (life as preparation and trial); C. S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain (1940), ch. 10: “the valley of soul-making”; St. John of the Cross, Dark Night of the Soul, Book II, on purgative suffering in this life.

² Visuddhimagga IX.26–33 (human realm as optimal for practice); Bhagavad Gītā 2.20–25 & 8.6 (human birth as rare opportunity for mokṣa); Śaṅkara’s commentary on Brahma Sūtra 3.1.1–7.

³ Zohar I:13a–b, III:129b (tikkun in the World of Action/Assiyah); Aryeh Kaplan, Inner Space (1991), ch. 9.

⁴ Rūmī, Mathnawī I:135–150 (“the reed flute’s complaint”); Al-Ghazālī, Iḥyāʾ ʿUlūm al-Dīn, Book 35 (patience and gratitude in worldly trials); Annemarie Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam (1975), pp. 134–137.

⁵ Rudolf Steiner, Outline of Esoteric Science (1910), ch. 4 (“Cosmic Evolution and the Earth”); Theosophy (1904), ch. 4 on the Earth as the turning-point of human evolution.

⁶ C. G. Jung, “The Stages of Life” (CW 8), §§ 749–795; Memories, Dreams, Reflections (1963), ch. XI: “On Life after Death.”

⁷ Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces (1949), Part I, ch. 3 (“Return”), especially “Master of the Two Worlds” and “Freedom to Live”; Pathways to Bliss (2004), pp. 25–27.