Crysticism Stories

Crysticism

Chapter 1 – The Backdoor

The late-afternoon sun slants through Evan’s bedroom window. Homework sits ignored in a heap on his desk. His phone lights up every few seconds, a constant drip of notifications that he keeps swiping away.

He lies on the floor, staring at the ceiling, headphones pushed down to his neck so he can hear the quiet hum of the house. His mind is louder than any playlist.

Wisdom. Truth. Free will. Spiritual guides. His brain chews on words he wishes would give him a break.

Down the hall, his dad moves around in the kitchen, cabinet doors opening and closing. The smell of onions and garlic drifts in. Dinner is coming. So is another conversation.

Evan pushes himself up, wanders to the doorway, then stops. He doesn’t really want answers, but he wants…something. Clarity. Proof. An off-switch.

He pads to the kitchen, socks whispering over the hardwood.

“Dad,” he says, leaning on the doorframe. “Why is getting wisdom so important? I mean, aren’t we supposed to let our spiritual guides make all our choices for us?”

His dad looks up from the cutting board. For a second, there’s a spark in his eyes that’s half amusement, half warning.

“Evan,” he says, “what demon gives you that suggestion?”

Evan blinks. “Seriously?”

Dad sets the knife down. “Without wisdom, you can’t choose which spiritual guides to listen to. There are divine guides, yeah. But there are also corrupted, selfish, false guides with similar backdoor access to your conscious mind.” He wipes his hands on a towel and meets Evan’s stare. “Only a false guide ever tells you that wisdom is unimportant.”

Evan’s chest tightens. Some part of him already knows that. Another part wants to throw the idea back.

He drops into a chair at the table, folding and unfolding a napkin between his fingers.

“Ouch,” he mutters. “So whoever set up the world… messed up. They allowed false teachers into our heads, right? Someone should send a memo to the Creator to amend the laws that let evil control us.”

The words come out sharper than he intends, sarcasm hiding the fear underneath.

“That’s a serious glitch,” he adds. “You got our Divine Father’s cosmic email so that I can complain? Because if He hasn’t fixed this backdoor malware, then either He doesn’t know about it, or He doesn’t care.”

He doesn’t say the last word out loud, but it echoes in his mind: doesn’t care.

Dad leans against the counter, arms folded, considering him carefully.

“The Creator,” he says slowly, “is completely aware of that flaw. At the beginning, there’s no need to discern which inner voice is benevolent. There are no evil Tempters. Back then, the choice was simple: align with your divine counselors or ignore them.”

He moves back to the stove, stirs something, the pan hissing.

“Those who listen,” Dad continues, “accept a stream of inspiration and progress quickly in what I call soul school. Those who ignore those inner nudges sometimes do nothing. That’s not considered evil, just them exercising free will.”

Evan hears the phrase "soul school" like it’s both a meme and a threat at the same time.

“There are so many good options available,” Dad says. “The main question is just: which virtue or mystic power do you want to work on right now? It’s like standing in front of an entire library. All the books are good. You can’t read them all at once. Some are easier if you read the other ones first. Some teach the same lesson differently. It’s tempting just to reread the same fun, simple fairy tales on repeat. But if that’s all you ever do, it slows down your wisdom, your virtues, your mystic powers.”

Evan lets the image form: rows of shelves, spines glowing, certain books pulsing like a heartbeat. He thinks of his actual school library, the dusty corners no one goes to, the quiet.

“This is like you,” he says, exhaling. “You keep suggesting things that would benefit me, but I only follow some of your advice and ignore the rest. No law says I have to learn to ride a bike. I’m not evil if I never do. There’s no deadline. But I know I’d benefit once I learned.”

Dad’s mouth twitches. “Exactly.”

“There are tons of optional physical-world skills,” Evan continues, his own analogy unfolding. “And every new ability opens up more options. There’s no law saying I have to learn to read, either. But if I don’t, I’m basically penalized by not being able to read half the books in that library.”

“Likewise,” Dad says, “there are optional mystic-world powers to master. Each one you learn opens new options.”

Evan leans back, staring at the ceiling again.

“I like that idea,” he admits. “But I’ve never heard any teacher at school say that. I’ve never seen it on social media or in the news. Is this some secret esoteric teaching, reserved for, like, elite cosmic nerds?”

Dad laughs softly. “Sort of. But not really. Your inner mystic guides want to teach you. There are beginner stages and advanced skills. You learn to walk before you ride a bicycle. If a soul student keeps ditching basic lessons, they’re automatically blocked from learning how to ride a cosmic bike across the universe.”

“A cosmic bike,” Evan says, snorting. “Fine. I’ll upgrade your metaphor.” He sits up straight, raising his voice like he’s recording a ridiculous ad. “Wanted: cosmic motorcycle for traversing the galaxy. Please call Evan at—actually, don’t call. Just teleport.”

Dad shakes his head, smiling.

“Basic lessons start with wisdom,” he says. “And understanding cosmic laws. Free will without wisdom? That’s not a gift. It’s a curse that guarantees eventual failure.”

Evan’s smile fades. Most of his life feels like a mess of options with no map, no manual. Free will sounds nice in theory. In practice, it feels like walking blindfolded through a minefield.

He drums his fingers on the table.

“So in the beginning,” he says slowly, “only divine inner voices are suggesting choices. But now there are flaws. So why does the Creator design a system that’s doomed to fail? What goes wrong?”

The question is heavier than the room. He feels his chest pull tight, like some invisible gravity is trying to drag the truth out of hiding.

Chapter 2 – Free Will and Broken Brakes

The kitchen clock ticks. Outside, a car passes, bass thudding through the walls. In the momentary quiet that follows, Dad speaks.

“Free will,” he says, “is the magic variable that allows the creation of evil.”

He doesn’t say allowed. He says "allows, "like it’s still happening, right now.

“If you have five hundred beneficial options,” Dad continues, “you also have five hundred harmful ones. The Creator knows the backdoor into our minds is a vulnerability, so He gives us access to wisdom, knowledge of the law, understanding.”

He turns off the stove and slides the pan off the burner.

“Look at a bike,” he says. “You can ride with your eyes closed. You can bomb down a steep hill way too fast. You can ride with no hands. None of that is evil. It’s just foolish.”

Evan pictures riding downhill with his eyes closed, wind clawing at his clothes, the world tilting. His stomach flips.

“Wisdom grows through observation and experience,” Dad says. “You can learn by watching someone crash when they ride with no hands. Or your inner egotistical voice of pride can dare you: you can do better, and you crash yourself. The wisdom you gain afterward tells you that breaking your leg has no actual advantage. Wisdom starts filtering your thoughts, your desires, even some of your explosive emotions.”

Evan looks at his own hands. Knuckles scarred from fights, skateboard falls and punching a wall once when things got too loud inside.

“So my Creator knows it’s impossible to remove all harmful choices,” he says. “So He allows me to develop my own wisdom. But why not just create me with all the wisdom I’d ever need? Then I wouldn’t have to learn from painful experiences.”

Dad dishes food onto plates, movements slow, deliberate.

“Your conscience,” he says, “already has a library of wisdom. But you have to download it into your soul.”

Evan’s eyes narrow. “Why can’t I just download all the wisdom at once? Like, click ‘accept all’ and be done?”

“Because,” Dad says, setting a plate in front of him, “each morsel of wisdom must be checked and approved by your freedom-loving, selfish human ego. Wisdom interferes with creative free will. Wisdom insists you keep your eyes open, don’t go too fast, and keep your hands on the handlebars. It limits your freedom to be foolish. Tempters specialize in projecting foolish ideas into young, unwise minds.”

He says young, unwise minds with no judgment, just realism. Evan still flinches.

“Diesel says,” Evan mutters, thinking of his friend with the dyed hair and permanent smirk, “that if he never does anything foolish, he’ll never learn anything. But lately, I’ve seen people do stuff that isn’t just foolish. It’s like…insane. I look at the news and wonder what got into their brains.”

He can still see it: the viral clip of a kid his age livestreaming violence, voice flat, eyes empty. The comment section is full of jokes, outrage and conspiracy theories. No one seems okay.

“It makes sense,” he continues slowly, “that it’s the Tempters. Their ideas, their suggestions. Like people let the Tempter’s mind replace their conscience.”

Dad takes his seat across from him.

“There’s another category of free-choice options,” he says. “Choices that go beyond unguided foolishness and become evil actions. Those aren’t listed in the basic options your soul is naturally wired for. Those aren’t the choices that pop up spontaneously in a healthy human brain.”

He folds his hands.

“Those destructive ideas,” he says, “originate from beyond the physical world. Demonic Tempters promote suicide, terrorism, mass murder and other senseless violence—just to create chaos. Those without wisdom are vulnerable to that kind of influence.”

Evan swallows. His throat feels dry.

“I’ve seen that,” he says, voice low. “Senseless violence. In real time, on my feed. People my age. If the Creator is so aware, why not just get rid of all the evil and reset everything back to the original pure condition?”

He thinks of Abby from the youth group, clutching her journal like a life raft.

“Abby’s waiting for her Savior,” he says. “She thinks He’ll come, fix everything. That all the foolish and evil options will …go away. She’s expecting a cosmic reset. Start fresh with only beneficial choices left on the menu.”

Dad exhales through his nose.

“A cosmic reset,” he says, “would be like destroying all the souls and creating new ones. Sure, all the interwoven evil gets erased. But so has the progress that the students have made. All the hard-won wisdom, all the virtues, all the mystic skill—it all goes.

“And even then, it fixes nothing long-term if you still have free-willed souls without wisdom. Hit reset, and they’d repeat the same mess, differently. Constant resets work fine in video games. But this is an evolving universe.”

Evan glances at the console in the living room, the saved worlds waiting for him to rage-quit and reload.

“I get your point,” he says. “Then what’s the solution? How do you stop evil from evolving right alongside goodness without taking away free will?”

Dad’s eyes soften.

“Soul students,” he says quietly, “must evolve into powerful mystic warriors. And fight to vanquish darkness.”

The word warriors lights something inside Evan—excitement, fear, curiosity. For a heartbeat, he imagines kids like him standing on a ridge of black rock under a violet sky, energy crackling in their hands, shadows writhing below.

He shakes himself. It’s just dinner. Just his dad talking.

Except it doesn’t feel like just anything.

Chapter 3 – Confused Truth

Later, after the dishes are done and the sky outside leaks into deep blue, Evan sits on the back steps. The yard is mostly dead grass and stubborn weeds, but tonight it looks like some in-between land. Streetlights hum in the distance. A siren wails, then fades.

He turns the conversation over in his mind like a Rubik’s Cube he can’t quite solve.

He thinks about how adults argue online, about politics, religion, climate change, human rights—each sure they hold the Truth while everything burns around them.

He presses his palms together, then pulls them apart, imagining a thin shimmer of energy stretching between them like invisible static. He doesn’t see it, not with his eyes, but he feels something—tension, possibility.

Inside, his dad’s voice floats out an open window, humming to himself as he cleans up. Evan stands, pushes open the back door, and steps in.

“Dad?” he calls.

“In here,” Dad answers.

Evan joins him at the sink, leaning against the counter.

“I’m confused,” he says. “I mean, really confused. Smart people—like, top-of-the-class people—set up these totally random, non-sequitur statements and call that their version of Truth. It works for them in the short-term, I guess, but long-term? It’s just foolish. It looks like they never grew out of childhood fantasy make-believe time. They just turned it into politics or religion or whatever.”

Dad nods, gaze on the soapy water.

“Filling my soul’s mind with false beliefs,” he says, as if he’s thinking out loud, “with anxiety, doubt, misunderstanding…it layers corruption over reality. Like mud coating glass. A committed soul student consecrates their mind as sacred space. Not as a dumping ground for fantasy, but as a place for real cosmic Truth.”

He rinses a plate and sets it in the rack.

“I strive to obtain, retain, and use wisdom,” he continues, “when I make decisions and when I teach others. I want my soul’s mind to be filled with cosmic Truth and understanding of cosmic laws. But I know I still harbor misconceptions and superstitions. I know my own false beliefs could corrupt anything I say. And I might not even be aware where I’m wrong.”

Evan looks at him sideways.

“Isn’t that why I go to school?” he asks. “So, like, professionals can pour non-false stuff into my head?”

Dad snorts.

“Unfortunately,” he says, “worldly schools do very little to instill cosmic Truth in students’ souls.”

Evan raises his eyebrows. “So you’d approve of me just…dropping out?”

Dad tilts his head, smirking. “Quite tempting,” he says. “What would you do instead?”

Evan hadn’t expected that.

“I thought you’d lecture me,” he says. “Stay in school, go to college, get a successful job, live happily ever after. That whole script. But honestly? I like school—for now. I’d miss my friends if I quit.”

Dad shrugs. “Maybe school is helping you more than you think. Maybe you’re learning some Truth and virtues there after all.”

He dries his hands on a towel.

“Generally,” he says, “useful Truth for the soul gets shoved into the religion or spirituality corner. Teachers are forbidden to talk about cosmic Truth. The Fallen Ones flood the world with fantasy religions so that cosmic Truth looks like just another personal brand. Society treats cosmic Truth as a taboo topic.”

Evan nods slowly. He’s seen it: religion as an aesthetic on TikTok, as an argument at family gatherings, as a thing you’re not supposed to bring up in class unless you want chaos.

“I’ve noticed that,” he says. “Most students barely think about what their souls will do in the afterlife. Ask them, and you get, ‘I don’t know. I guess I’ll find out when I get there.’ Most think they can’t understand cosmic Truth anyway, so why waste time worrying about it?”

He imagines a fake memo being emailed to everyone at birth.

“Feels like someone sent out a global memo to humans,” he says. “‘Do not ponder your soul’s afterlife, or you won’t go to Heaven.’”

Dad laughs once, but his eyes stay serious.

“Every brand of religion,” he says, “has its own limited version of cosmic Truth. That version of cosmic reality is supported by key false beliefs that construct a perfect fantasy afterlife. Their make-believe Creator can do whatever He wants. The preachers fill people’s minds with illogical superstitions that supposedly guarantee easy eternal happiness.”

Evan frowns.

“Again, you surprise me,” he says. “I thought you’d be all in on religion because it teaches people to be good. I mean, that’s what everyone says. But I agree—something’s wrong with the system. Real cosmic Truth should be universal. An open-minded soul should easily understand it.”

Dad smiles, something like pride in his eyes.

“Congratulations,” he says softly. “You nailed it. The keyword is open-minded. Most people aren’t open to cosmic Truth. They prefer fantasy and the selfish freedom to do whatever they want. They pick out the religion that lets their ego keep its favorite toys.”

Evan folds his arms.

“That seems backward,” he says. “You’d think the soul would automatically understand universal cosmic Truth. Like it’d be woven into every atom of who we are. Cosmic Truth is reality, so it should be obvious and easy to perceive, right?”

He feels a strange certainty rising as he speaks.

“I think people create their own version of Truth,” he says, “to cover the universal Truth they see as restrictive. Some part of their soul knows the real Truth, but their ego hides it behind false beliefs for now. Discovering Truth isn’t about adding new stuff—it’s about eliminating all the false beliefs that are fogging reality.”

Dad’s face lights up.

“Bravo,” he says. “You’ve dared to speak the Truth. Cosmic Truth exists. It’s knowable. We can understand it if we’re willing to unblock our distorted minds.”

Evan feels a subtle shift inside, like a locked door just clicked open a notch.

“Then I think the real keyword,” he says, “is will. People unconsciously use their willpower to block the Truth with convenient false beliefs.”

Dad nods. “There are plenty of false teachers,” he says, “ready to share distorted, ‘expedient’ versions of Truth for fantasy-minded souls.”

“Who would do that?” Evan asks. “Who creates designer religions just to attract people who like that particular perversion of Truth? Who dares teach false beliefs specifically to hide the real Truth?”

“Those who gain something from it,” Dad says simply.

Evan’s stomach twists.

“So false teachers benefit,” he says slowly, “from encouraging souls to live in a fantasyland. Their false teachings lead souls away from cosmic Truth. That’s not just unkind. It’s cruel. Why would they want that?”

“It’s easier to control someone through their beliefs than through force,” Dad says. “If you restructure someone’s core beliefs, they’ll act in accordance with those beliefs—true or false. An oppressed slave will fight their owner. But a devoted follower of a false teacher will happily do whatever they’re told.”

Evan’s mind jumps to cult documentaries, extremist groups, even manipulative influencers who weaponize aesthetics and trauma for clout.

“So soul school,” he says slowly, “teaches us to discard false beliefs. We have to unlearn the attitudes and perspectives that let other people manipulate us.”

Dad grins. “You’re on a roll today. You must have taken some smart pills this morning.”

Evan exhales, half a laugh.

“It still feels backward,” he says. “My conscience already has all the answers, virtues and powers. But my soul is blocking them out. That’s like having a massive trust account from my parents and acting like it doesn’t exist. The treasures are already mine. All our wisdom, energy, and powers are locked in a safe. We have the combination, but we refuse to open it. Why are our souls this foolish?”

Dad’s eyes drift toward the window, toward the dark yard beyond.

“It boils down,” he says, “to using expanded free choice to play in fantasyland instead of living in cosmic reality.

“We choose real wisdom or false beliefs that justify whatever we want.

“We choose a trickle of pure divine energy or a river of used, corrupted energy.

“We use our mystical powers to co-create perfection—or to overindulge in sensual human pleasure.

“We choose to ensoul pure virtues—or claim the freedom to ride the electrochemical emotional roller coaster.”

Evan shivers at the phrase. He can almost feel it: energy surging through nerves, chemicals firing in his brain, emotions jerking him up and down like a broken carnival ride.

“Free will,” he says quietly, “is dangerous freedom if there’s no wisdom based on real Truth.”

Dad nods. “Accessing the wisdom, virtue, and divine power in our conscience,” he says, “automatically destroys our self-created illusions. Those who prefer their expanded freedom to live outside the land of perfection won’t open that mystic vault because it would destroy the world they currently want. In our make-believe dream, we can’t use those treasures for selfish indulgence.”

Evan imagines a vault inside his chest, light seeping out through cracks, his hands pressed against the door, too afraid to turn the wheel.

“Weren’t we given free will,” he asks, “so we could randomly experiment and experience sensations?”

Dad shakes his head. “No,” he says. “The Creator initially gives us authority to co-create in His name. We’re required to act within the boundaries of cosmic laws and Truth. To stay aligned with divine intentions and the plan. We’re not needed to create fantasy or to act outside of holy virtues. We’re on God’s team, playing by His rules.”

“So when we want to do something different,” Evan says, “our Creator gets mad and kicks us off the team?”

“Many believe that,” Dad replies. “But we are the ones who walk away. We go looking for something ‘different.’ It’s like we leave the field to buy a hot dog and then forget where our Divine Father’s stadium even is. We wander into another stadium and sit in the bleachers, watching the Fallen Ones put on their show.”

Evan pictures it vividly: leaving a bright, unified field and stumbling into a neon-lit arena run by shadows, the crowd cheering for chaos.

“You keep saying the same thing,” he says slowly, “but I’m finally starting to get it. I used to think this world was created exactly as it is as a gift for me. That I could be happy for a while if I were good-ish. I thought my choice was between being selfish and following what preachers told me.

“But now, it’s like—understanding Truth and cosmic laws can give me the wisdom to know what to do. That’s way better than defaulting to blind obedience to whatever belief system I inherited.”

Dad studies him.

“You’re just a teenager, remember,” he says gently. “So I assume you’re talking about your soul’s ancient memory beliefs.”

Evan laughs once.

“Next,” he says, “I believed we started as empty, worthless, stupid souls who had to learn everything from scratch, like soul school existed to fill up a blank soul mind with cosmic wisdom. Like my weak, useless soul had to learn everything, the way my human brain has to relearn reading, math, science every life.

“But you’re saying my soul doesn’t have to learn everything. I have to remember what I chose to forget. Just dissolve my make-believe consciousness, and I go back to my natural, brilliant, virtuous, powerful self.”

He shakes his head, almost dizzy.

“That sounds like a shortcut,” he says. “Like turning off the TV and waking up to reality. So why aren’t souls choosing to do that?”

“Karma,” Dad says quietly. “And momentum. We’ve gotten dependent on having a web of interlocking beliefs that validate each other. When one belief falls, another automatically pops up to replace it.

“I believe a friend is trustworthy. Then I heard a rumor that they betrayed me. That belief disappears, and a new one appears: they’re untrustworthy. The friend doesn’t care about my beliefs.

“And on top of that, false teachers keep feeding us illusions. They want our delusions to survive.”

Evan groans.

“You can be so depressing,” he says. “You tell me about an instant-enlightenment shortcut, then explain why I can’t use it.”

Dad smiles sadly.

“Soul school looks like it’s about mastering new wisdom, virtues, mystic skills,” he says. “And the lessons and tests are real. But what’s actually happening is rediscovery. Mastery of self.”

He taps his temple lightly.

“Our souls are buried in layers of illusion,” he says. “We peel them away one by one, and it seems like new understanding appears at each layer. But once that layer is gone, the understanding feels natural and familiar because it was always there.

“Removing each layer hurts like ripping off a Band-Aid. The skin underneath was always there, just covered. Enlightenment is ripping away the attached illusions that gave us comfort. People are tricked into fearing they’ll lose their freedom if they open their vault of soul treasures.

“Most are so distracted by fantasy—jobs, bills, constant indulgence—that they never even think about their souls. They’re unaware of their divine self. And if you try to explain cosmic Truth, they shrug. They’re lost in the illusion of survival and the next hit of pleasure.”

Evan stares at the floor, heart thudding. He thinks of classmates glued to their phones, chasing likes, chasing numbness, chasing anything.

“This has been…a lot,” he says finally. “So let me summarize.

“There is an understandable cosmic Truth. I can remember it if I choose. False teachers try to stop me because if I remember, they lose control. True mystic teachers try to help me through lessons and tests in soul school, to unwind my layers of false beliefs, slowly.”

Dad’s eyes shine.

“Ding,” he says softly. “You win the prize. Your soul gains wisdom through knowledge of cosmic laws and cosmic Truth. Understanding is having that wisdom and holding on to the truth in your soul’s mind. Spending wisdom is using that Truth to decide—and act—virtuously.”

The words settle over Evan like a cloak. Heavy, but right.

Somewhere deep inside, the vault door hums—a faint line of light leaks from the edges.

For the first time, he doesn’t look away.

Blanket Fort Fantasy

Chapter One: Saturday Morning Worlds

Evan lies on his back on the carpet, phone above his face, doom‑scrolling through videos that all look the same. The living room is quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional notification ping. His dad sits in the armchair nearby, a paperback folded over his thumb, studying Evan like he’s some rare animal that might bolt if approached too quickly.

“Hey,” Dad says, closing the book. “Did I ever tell you about our blanket forts?”

Evan blinks away the blue light and lowers his phone. “Blanket forts?”

Dad leans forward, his elbows on his knees. His eyes shine like he’s stepping through some invisible door only he can see.

“As a child,” he begins, “on early Saturday mornings, we build temporary blanket forts using tables, chairs, and whatever else we can drag across the floor. These fantasy‑land constructs are our gateway to incredible make‑believe adventures. The blankets form the outer walls. Inside that blanket bubble, there are no rules or limits. We are free to do anything or be anybody. The spaceship can instantly become a desert island if that’s what our fantasy needs.”

Evan pictures their small dining table, the stiff chairs and the thin throw blanket on the couch. It all feels… lame compared to the hyper‑edited explosions flickering on his screen.

He snorts. “Why don’t you just watch TV instead? It’s so much easier to sit and tune into silly cartoons.”

Dad smiles, not offended, just amused. “We look forward to our blanket‑fort fun. It feels so much more real than TV. Eventually, my mom and dad wake up, come down the stairs, and join the fun. They descend on all fours, crawling under the big dining‑room table with the three adventurers. Through our words, feelings, and actions, they quickly catch up with the nature of our current fantasy adventure and join the make‑believe play for the next hour. The five of us journey worldwide, fight victorious battles, and no one gets hurt.”

Evan props himself up on his elbows. His own parents have never crawled under a table for anything.

“I’m surprised your parents know how to play along with you,” he says.

“We all know it isn’t real,” Dad says, “but our imaginations allow us to pretend. We experience real thoughts and feelings. We protect each other, defeat the bad guys, save the city. Our creative visualizations layer on top of reality. Our mystic senses let us tune in to what each other is thinking, imagining, and feeling.”

“Mystic senses?” Evan repeats. The words sound like something from an RPG.

Dad nods, eyes far away. “Someone can be an evil demon dragging away a kicking and screaming victim. The rest of us instantly start concocting a plan to rescue the victim and vanquish the bad guy.”

Evan chews on that. In his games, the demon is just pixels and hit points.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “But, uh… are the demon’s feelings hurt when he gets defeated?”

Dad laughs softly, but his voice stays serious. “Our free wills blend and synchronize with each other. Our willpower generates the imaginative thoughts, visualizations, and feelings that create a group fantasy. Everyone is included. No one is in charge. Roles are shared and freely traded. We use our intuitive, mystical senses to link our thoughts and feelings into a magical experience.

“We pretend to have and use mystical superpowers, with hand motions and sound effects. No props are needed. The universal, all‑purpose extended hand can grip a gun, treasure, or hamburger.”

Evan pictures a six‑year‑old version of his dad with a finger gun and can’t help smirking.

“Did you feel deprived without video games?” he asks.

Dad shakes his head. “Computers don’t exist yet—not even in science‑fiction movies. We all cycle through various characters, bodies, and personalities. In another adventure, we die and return to life with different bodies and characters. We know our real soul is not the age, gender, or race we are temporarily pretending to be. No one is stuck always being the monster, the victim, or the team leader.”

Evan shifts, feeling a strange tug in his chest, like something in that sentence lands too close.

“With the flip of a mental switch,” Dad continues, “we can be a boy, a girl, or a robot and still know it’s pretending. The five of us safely and freely experience various thoughts and feelings. We work out anything we might otherwise have trouble expressing. We can be angry, confused, hopeful, or depressed—just to try out experiencing those feelings.

“We can be helpless, powerful, or detached. I don’t have to suppress my feelings to prevent hurting my brother’s feelings. We each control our self‑generated thoughts, images, and feelings with our willpower. We practice thinking, imagining, and feeling in a safe, protected environment. There are no rules or limits, but things generally end happily.

“Eventually, our illusory play‑world blanket fort disappears when Father declares, ‘Time to clean up this mess.’ The illusion folds up, and reality is restored. The past blanket fantasies are forgotten, and new adventures begin.”

Evan stares at the blank TV screen. His phone screen has gone dark in his hand. In his chest, something like static stirs—energy uncoiling, restless.

He doesn’t know it yet, but this conversation is the first tug at the blanket he’s been living under his whole life.

Chapter Two: Lava Floors and Soft Monsters

The next afternoon, Evan and his dad sit at the kitchen table, homework and bills spread between them like a neutral zone. Rain taps at the windows. The sky hangs low and gray, pressing on the rooftops.

Evan closes his math book with a sigh. “I still don’t get how any of this matters if the world is, like, falling apart.”

Dad glances up. “You sound like someone who needs another story.”

Evan rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest.

“Your grandfather is a big man,” Dad says. “Sometimes he puts one of us on his shoulders and one on each foot. He then tromps around the house with loud, ridiculous sound effects. The ones on his feet tenaciously hold on to his legs, bracing for the shock of his foot crashing down in the jungle.”

Evan imagines a huge man stomping through a living room, kids screaming with laughter. The image makes him smile.

“Father can temporarily be a dinosaur,” Dad continues, “or a ‘mona monster,’ or a nice giant robot. Cushions from the couch, tossed on the floor, become safety zones in the boiling lava pit. We leap from one cushion to another, traveling across the house.

“Cushions are spaced further apart to challenge our skills and intensify the drama. Eventually, someone falls into the lava, and the others rush to pull them out and save them. ‘Thanks, guys; I think I’m dead for sure.’”

Dad grins at the remembered line, and the kitchen seems to warm around him.

“The goal is for everyone to cross the lava safely,” he says, “not to be the first across. No one is designated a loser. Everyone always wins.”

Evan hears that and feels something in his chest loosen. No loser. He thinks of school—rankings, grades, followers, likes. There is always a loser there.

“That sounds like real fun,” he says, and he means it.

“We don’t depend on costumes, scripts, or a central leader,” Dad goes on. “We can be monkeys, army men, or aliens. We explore the world and beyond the galaxy. No rules or limits are imposed on working out our thoughts and feelings.

“Occasionally, there’s mild competition through verbal one‑upmanship. ‘I am a soldier with a big machine gun.’ ‘Well then, I am Superman.’ ‘I am even stronger because I am God.’ ‘I am the one who made God.’ ‘I am the whole universe.’ No one wins or loses; everyone benefits from the thinking exercise.”

The phrases hang in the air like a weird poem. Evan feels them ripple through him—a ladder of power that keeps climbing until it dissolves into something too big to hold.

“Okay, that’s kind of intense,” he says.

Dad laughs. “It is. And it trains our minds to stretch, to imagine beyond the obvious.”

Outside, a car splashes through a puddle. Inside, there is just the table, the math homework, and a boy trying to understand why these old stories feel more real than the world he scrolls through.

Chapter Three: The Prepared World

A few days later, Evan and his dad walk home from the bus stop together. The air is chilly, the street lined with bare trees. Trash flutters in the gutter—fast‑food bags, a crumpled flyer for a protest that already happened.

“Did you always live in, like, some magical fantasy house?” Evan asks suddenly. “Because our apartment is more like… a shoebox fort.”

Dad chuckles. “Not magical. But my father is a Montessori teacher. He understands the value of a prepared home‑learning environment.”

They turn the corner, their breaths puffing in white clouds.

“He builds a large addition to our house,” Dad says. “He turns it into a playroom filled with cushions, large boxes, ramps, and soft, lightweight furniture. We build obstacle courses, jungles, and battlefields. Ropes and swings hang from the ceiling. Father sets up a maze of six hanging sheet hammocks across the ceiling. We climb up and launch ourselves from one hammock to the next, crossing the long room.”

Evan stops in the middle of the sidewalk. “Wait. Six hammocks? Across the ceiling? That’s, like… OSHA’s worst nightmare.”

He shakes his head. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“The risk of falling from the ceiling to the floor makes it even more exciting to be up so high,” Dad says. His eyes crinkle at the corners, remembering. “No one ever gets seriously hurt. My friends love coming to my house. We play for hours, nestled in the sheets and blanket fantasy land, soaring in the clouds.”

Evan imagines his classmates in such a room instead of the cramped, fluorescent‑lit hallways they march through five days a week. He thinks of the way everyone is constantly ranked—test scores, sports teams, college lists—as invisible numbers glow above their heads.

He wonders what kind of people they would be if they grew up in a world where everyone always wins, and the floor is only lava if you choose it.

Chapter Four: Under the Porch

That night, thunder rolls over the city. Rain beats on the roof with a relentless rhythm. Evan sits cross‑legged on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His room feels too small for the questions crowding his chest.

There’s a soft knock on his door. Dad peeks in. “Can’t sleep?”

“Not really,” Evan admits.

Dad steps inside and sits on the edge of the bed. Shadows from the streetlights slide across the walls, like slow‑moving waves.

“At age twelve,” Dad says quietly, “my small pack of five kids makes a play‑fort under the back porch. Various dials, lights, and gadgets are attached to the wooden beams above to create our command center. This fantasy‑world space can be a secret hideout, a spaceship, or a submarine.

“There are no rules or limits. We know it’s all an illusion, but we use our willpower to make‑believe. Reality is instantly restored when we crawl out of the small opening.”

Evan closes his eyes and sees boards overhead, dusty light and the smell of dirt and wood. A cramped space that somehow holds entire universes.

“I can see how important mystic communication and aligned teamwork would be,” he says slowly. “The fantasy world would just… collapse if someone doesn’t want to play along.”

Dad nods. “Everything is fluid. No one is really in charge. There are no set schedules or plans. A new fantasy adventure spontaneously emerges, and off we ride on our bicycles.

“Our bicycles become our chariots, spaceships, or motorcycles, with appropriate sound effects. We buzz around our neighborhood, imagining whatever we want. We venture into the local wooded hillside, pretend to be lost for hours, and we are both relieved and disappointed when we find our way out of the jungle.”

As Dad speaks, Evan feels the room changing. The solid walls seem to thin; the air hums, full of invisible routes and secret doors. The rain becomes a jungle drumbeat. The streetlamp glow turns into alien suns.

He realizes that his father’s stories are not just memories. They are maps.

Chapter Five: Real Adventures

In history class, Mr. Wilson talks about past revolutions—students in the streets, people facing tanks with nothing but cardboard signs and stubborn eyes. Evan glances at the classroom windows, at the slick, wet parking lot beyond. His classmates scroll under their desks, their faces blank.

On the walk home, Evan blurts, “So what happens when you grow up? Do the adventures … stop?”

Dad looks up at the overcast sky. “By college,” he says, “fantasy play fades away. It’s replaced with real outdoor adventures. My new pack rafts down wild rivers, squeezes through small holes in underground wonderlands, and packs through the wilderness.

“We are free to experience joy, wonder, and hardship year‑round. We use our willpower to challenge our physical and emotional limits in the real world—with real consequences. We experience dramatic emotions in temporarily challenging physical environments.”

They wait at a crosswalk. A car speeds by, splashing the curb.

“What is so attractive about being in nature and not in the city?” Evan asks.

“Being isolated in nature helps us develop our mystic senses and powers,” Dad answers. “There are no portable electronic devices, no cell phones or GPS units. We use gut feelings, intuition, and long‑range inner vision to see around the bend.

“We use our willpower to adapt ourselves to an ever‑changing environment. Natural internal senses reach out to detect unseen dangers. Sometimes, disaster ensues, and we are forced to team up and survive. The dramatic situation triggers emotions rarely felt.

“Upon returning, there is renewed gratitude and appreciation—for a flushing toilet, a comfortable bed, indoor heat.”

They cross the street together. Evan imagines being cut off from every signal, every notification, every carefully filtered image. The idea scares him—and thrills him in a way that feels like standing on the edge of a high dive.

“How do you even learn so many skills?” he asks.

“I temporarily don new characters,” Dad says. “I am a canoeist, a rock climber, a spelunker. When I put on the proper outfit and equipment, I am instantly transformed into a rock climber with a certain skill level.

“I am not a white male Christian twenty‑two‑year‑old rock climber—I’m just a fellow rock‑climbing adventurer. It is a temporary real‑life experience, with new feelings and a separate space for developing mystical senses and powers.

“I use my special soul powers to stick to a sheer granite wall and magically grip small bumps on the surface. I temporarily have superpowers that let me levitate up a wall. I become a different character, and when I return home to normal life, I become someone else again.”

Evan studies his dad’s profile. He sees not just a middle‑aged guy who forgets where he parked the car, but someone who has hung from cliffs and disappeared into caves and crossed invisible thresholds.

“The danger of falling pushes you to be more powerful,” Evan says quietly.

Dad nods. “Some childhood self‑imposed limitations evolve from wanting to stay in my comfort zone. As an adventurer, I deliberately enter challenging, stressful environments to be forced to expand my physical, mental, and emotional limits.

“I make a free‑choice decision to stretch beyond my previous self‑imposed limitations by using my willpower and being open to others’ help. I stretch my emotional control as well as my physical strength and endurance.

“By surviving a drama, I expand my self‑esteem, my confidence in my soul powers, and my trust in something higher beyond my soul. I tap into and draw upon resources that have previously been ignored. We take risks and surrender to trusting our inner senses and powers.

“Sometimes, we perceive a miraculous intercession of a higher power. A tragedy is magically averted through unexplainable circumstances. I learned that I am not alone.”

Evan shivers, though the wind is not that cold. He feels a current of something move under his skin—like a river under pavement.

“I am amazed,” he says. “These adventures are like your younger fantasy playtime, but now they’re real. I… kind of wish I could have experienced growing up without cellphones and computers.”

He imagines what might be waiting beyond the screen, just out of view, like a cliff face in the dark.

Chapter Six: Soul School

A week later, the city is buzzing with protest. Posters cover the bus stops—about climate justice, about police violence, about a local factory dumping waste into the river. At school, people argue in the halls, pick sides and post threads. Some care. Some pretend not to.

Evan feels like he’s standing between worlds: one where everything is on fire, and one where nothing is real unless it’s trending.

That night, he finds his dad at the kitchen counter, hands wrapped around a mug of tea.

“Do you ever feel like… none of this is real?” Evan asks. “Like we’re all just playing parts we didn’t pick?”

Dad looks at him for a long moment. Then he nods slowly.

“My growing mystical senses and powers come from beyond my soul,” he says. “They aren’t mine personally, but borrowed. I use mystic energy that comes from beyond my soul. I am not alone.

“I befriend graduated mystic teachers at soul school—guides who help and assist when I ask, and when they are allowed to. Each lifetime, my soul wears a costume and pretends to be someone. My soul experiences thoughts, sensations, and feelings as I discover and master my real, authentic self.

“My soul is supposed to remember and be aware of the self, separate from the temporary human body. I need to be mindful of being a soul student with mystic teachers.”

Evan leans against the counter. The hum of the fridge grows louder, like white noise covering a secret frequency.

“So,” he says slowly, “what we see as the real world is like the pretend blanket fort for the soul?”

Dad smiles, something sad and kind in his eyes. “Exactly. Getting tied up in the temporary pretend illusion of being a plumber, banker, or sanitation engineer limits my soul’s learning options. Just like the adventurers in the blanket fort know they are pretending to be monsters, the soul must pretend to play different roles for this lifetime.

“Unfortunately, many people get caught up in the illusion and forget about soul school. They fully believe they are their body’s age, race, gender, and selfish ego personality. They stay under the back porch, separated from the spiritual world and all their wonderful mystic senses and powers.”

Evan thinks of his classmates—how some are already convinced they are only their labels: poor, rich, Black, white, queer, straight, gifted, remedial, how the school system boxes them in, how the news boxes them in even more.

He imagines invisible blanket forts made of anxiety and numbness, whole lives lived under porches.

In his mind’s eye, lines of light run between people—thin, trembling threads of energy—most of them tangled, some cut, a few glowing bright where someone remembers they’re more than their role.

Chapter Seven: Imagination Today

Spring arrives, but it doesn’t feel like it. The sky is still tired. The news is still bad. A heatwave hits early, making the air thick and heavy.

After school, Evan and Dad walk past a group of kids sitting outside a convenience store, heads bowed to their screens. A billboard above them advertises the latest superhero movie: explosions, capes, destruction framed as entertainment.

“Why do people spend less time experiencing real adventures?” Evan asks, watching a girl scroll past videos of forests while sitting on concrete.

Dad exhales. “Most people today have few deliberately chosen adventures. It is considered too traumatic and risky. They dreadfully wait for the universe to interject disaster in their lives, to force the expansion of their self‑imposed limitations.

“A core component of soul school is stretching the soul’s abilities, senses, and powers. A person who avoids this kind of self‑development does not evolve. The teachers are forced to increase the drama in a student’s life, to allow them to develop their mental, emotional, and physical discipline and control.”

Evan winces, thinking of neighborhoods flooded, families evicted, kids dealing with violence they never chose.

“So, to summarize,” he says, “if people don’t plan to evolve their soul, the universe will… unmercifully force it on them through disasters and traumas. Why don’t they teach this in high school?”

Dad gives a short, humorless laugh. “Many of today’s youth don’t get to experience freeform unlimited play. Their worlds are bombarded with so many images that they rarely have a chance to create their own.

“Playtime consists of remembered images from videos and movies. Reading is becoming an abandoned pastime.”

“Why spend two days reading a book,” Evan mutters, mimicking voices he’s heard, “when I can experience it in a two‑hour movie?”

“Reading a book dictates the streaming outplay of events,” Dad says, “but the reader’s willpower must activate their imagination and create the flowing images. The soul’s mystic senses read between the lines, reaching out to tune in to the author’s inspired feelings and ideas.

“Intuition can pick up on subtle clues to prepare for the book’s unfolding future events. The mystic power of imagination can recreate an almost real adventure, much larger, structured by the author.

“Sitting still in front of the TV dictates what you see, think, and feel. My father always pauses a movie and asks what we think about the movie, characters, plot, and so on. We all hate it when he does it, because it breaks the mesmerism effect.

“I realize now his goal is to keep us from being hypnotized by the movie. He keeps our independent, free thinking and feeling alive, separate from the movie.”

They pass a digital billboard that loops an ad about “freedom” while selling a subscription. Evan can almost feel the hypnotic pull in the colors and the edits—like invisible hands trying to close his eyes for him.

Many of the lessons his dad describes—interrupting the hypnosis, questioning the story—are already woven into their own lives. Evan realizes he has been trained to pause, to ask why, without knowing where the habit comes from.

“Many of the lessons you learned from your father have been passed on to your children,” he says softly. “I’m grateful for what you’ve taught me, so I can use the same techniques to help my kids someday.

“I feel sorry for all the kids raised without a father. Or without any adult who helps them see past the screen.”

Dad’s face tightens with quiet sorrow.

“Those who abandon soul school are misusing their mystic energy,” he says. “This stained energy sinks into the lower, hellish world and creates blanket forts for their soul to escape into after their bodies die.

“The inside of these tent‑like shelters is filled with corrupt human desires, wants, traumas, and false beliefs. These souls create an escape fantasy land in the astral plane, programmed as a single repeating adventure.

“The soul retreats to this safe, comforting space in the afterlife and gets stuck in a repeating nightmare composed of their harmful actions. The soul is afraid to enter the unknown beyond their blanket fort. They ignore their father’s repeated command to clean up their mess.”

As Dad speaks, Evan envisions it—dark tents made of unresolved pain, glowing faintly in some other dimension. Inside, people replay the worst choices they ever made, over and over, their energy looping in tight, twisted spirals.

He feels a shiver of recognition. Not because he has died, but because he knows what it’s like to get stuck in a thought spiral now—replaying an argument, a mistake, a cruel comment. It’s just a smaller version of the same trap.

Chapter Eight: Choosing the Fort

That night, Evan lies awake again. The city hums outside, full of sirens and laughter and distant music. On his ceiling, streetlight shadows shift like moving blankets.

He thinks about real‑world issues he can’t stop hearing about: climate collapse, racism, inequality, a system that seems custom‑built to crush the same people over and over.

He also thinks about soul school.

If life is a blanket fort for the soul, he wonders, then what kind of fort is he building?

He closes his eyes and imagines energy moving inside him—threads of light, some tangled, some straight. When he believes he is just a stressed‑out high school kid with too much homework and not enough control, the energy tightens, coils in his chest like a fist.

But when he imagines himself as a soul in a temporary costume—a student in a wild school with hidden teachers—the energy loosens. It expands, spiraling outward in soft waves, connecting to something larger than the walls of his room.

He sees his classmates again—not just as labels in a system, but as adventurers who have forgotten they are playing. Some are stuck in lava pits. Some are trapped under porches. Some are already climbing hammocks across invisible ceilings.

The next morning, as he walks to school, Evan feels different. The sidewalk is the same. The cracked asphalt, the graffiti, the row of overflowing trash cans— all the same. But beneath it, he senses another layer, like a half‑remembered dream.

He realizes the revolution he wants—the one against prejudice, inequality, environmental destruction, and all the systems that crush people—cannot only happen outside. It also has to happen in the forts people build in their minds.

The spiritual truths his dad shares are not rules. They are clues. Clues to a larger mystery that includes climate marches and late‑night panic attacks and blanket forts made of fear or courage.

Evan doesn’t know exactly what adventure comes next. But he knows this much:

He doesn’t want to wait for the universe to throw disasters at him to make him grow.

He wants to choose his adventures. He wants to build forts that open, not trap. He wants to remember, while he is still alive, that he is more than the role he’s been handed.

Outside the school gates, he pauses. Kids flow around him, pulled by schedules and bells and unspoken rules. For a second, everything slows. He feels energy gathering inside his chest again, bright and steady.

He steps forward, into the building, into the next scene.

Somewhere behind his ribs, the soul of a young adventurer flips the mental switch and whispers:

Time to clean up this mess.

Time to start a new adventure.