In the realm of dreams, messages can come in many forms, taking shape and coming alive within the mysterious territory of our consciousness. People who have passed away in this reality may still remain connected to us through an unseen world, quietly guiding us along the paths we are meant to follow.
My father passed away in 2024, just before I embarked on a journey to work in a coastal Aboriginal community. His presence can no longer be seen in this world, yet at the same time, a stranger entered my life and settled in my heart.
The last time I visited my very ill father, I took a drop of his tear and promised that I would set it free in the ocean.
I think I was searching for him—for his dignity as a man, or perhaps for a reason why he had failed as a father. Like the oceans in my dreams, everything felt distant, far away, and dangerous.
I was living on the edge of the world, where the tides shift in extreme ways, where I could watch the ocean flow in different directions. The way nature revealed itself felt so strange, so mystical, beyond my comprehension.
At the furthest edge of the planet, the tear was set free, it transformed into a huge red sun, sinking into the ocean, as the message arrived at the shore.
One night, I dreamt that I was walking through a bustling street in Taiwan, searching for something that could commemorate my father. I entered a crowded, two-story temple and asked the people at the front desk where I could find guidance. They handed me a number and told me to go upstairs and wait.
The second floor was already filled with people, all waiting to be called, each carrying their own questions. It felt strange, but I sat down anyway. I watched them approach the staff one by one, asking, hoping. In my head, I kept repeating why I was there. The weight in my chest was heavy. I thought they could help me to find the right item I was looking for.
When my number was finally called, I walked straight up to the counter, and I was completely ignored by them. At first, I didn’t understand. Then came the shock and anger. Still, I didn’t leave. I went back to my seat, confused and unsettled, watching others receive their answers as if nothing had happened.
Then suddenly, my name was called. Finally, I had the chance to speak. The words quickly rose to my throat, as I had already rehearsed them in my mind—when, out of nowhere, a crowd of reporters appeared, cameras flashing, lights glaring, all directed at me. I froze. I had no choice but to say what I was about to say.
Something deeply personal was exposed without my permission. It felt misplaced, yet somehow unavoidable, almost as if it was meant to happen. Even though people were moved and praised by my story, all I felt was a deep sense of discomfort.
After this dramatic moment, one of the staff members took me to the back of the temple, where I could buy the item to commemorate my father. I checked my pocket, wondering how much money I had left. Somehow, the sacred feeling of the temple had disappeared; it now felt like a cheap store, which made no sense at all.
The staff pulled out a cute blue dress and told me this was what I needed. I hesitated. A blue dress—was this something my father would have wanted me to wear? I asked for another option. This time, they showed me a small flashlight, tiny enough to wear as a necklace, saying this was the item that could represent my father. I stood there, staring at it, at the different colors that came with, unsure why—but in the end, I accepted it. I used the 100 dollars in my pocket to purchased the flashlight.
And that was when I woke up.
“A flashlight small enough to hang around my neck… is that really something that can represent my father?” I later told my partner about the dream, and we laughed about it. You never really know what comes through from that unseen place. At the time, So much of it felt like a joke. It was only months later, when reality rolled in like gentle waves, that the meaning of the message slowly began to reveal itself.
When I first arrived in the center of Australia—Uluru—from the south in 2020, I unintentionally took two small rocks with me. Once I learned it was a taboo to do so, I became determined to return them on my own.
After four years, I found myself back on the walking trail, searching for the exact place where I had first picked up the rocks. And finally, when I stood there again, I found the feeling that had been missing all along.
The scene no longer felt like the desert, it felt like I was walking along a beach, coming across two stones washed up on the sand.
And somehow, that explained everything.
Uluru revealed itself to me once again—not only that time is not linear, but something deeper, something that reaches back into the time of creation, into the myths held by the custodians of this land.
In the realm of dreams, I was called, long time ago.
Something else happened.
Halfway through the walk around Uluru, we saw a camera crew walk past while my partner and I were sitting at an arbor to rest. I simply thought they were probably just documenting Uluru.
After taking enough rest, we continued our journey. Not long after a few steps, a middle-aged man suddenly called out from behind, kindly asking if we could stop for a quick interview. I readily accepted and assumed they just needed me to answer a couple of simple questions.
I never thought I would tell anyone that I was returning the rocks. But when the camera started rolling and the question finally came—“Why are you here?”, the truth came out of my mouth like crashing waves. The heavy burden that had been hidden inside me was suddenly exposed to the light.
The crew looked at me in disbelief. Only later did they tell me they had actually been looking for someone returning rocks to Uluru, which made me realize how unlikely this moment was. After four years, at that exact moment, I found myself standing in the spotlight, found out of nowhere, without either of us ever expecting it.
As we left the scene, a sudden thought struck me. It was almost the exact same scene I had seen in my dream. The inconceivable sequence of events seemed to take on a new mystical layer, shaped by everything that was now unfolding in my real life. Instead of excitement, what I felt was something closer to bewilderment.
If I try to connect the dots now, I still don’t have an explanation for what has happened. The only thing I’m holding onto feels like a fragment, something that points toward an unknown future. I don’t think this dream has fully revealed itself yet, and maybe that’s why I’m still here searching.
Do you believe that? A flashlight small enough to hang around my neck… where is that light leading me? What was my father trying to tell me? I can only hope this hole will lead me to the answer one day.
26th April 2026 17:33 Taipei
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