The Prison of Light

Ok here we go my friends, lets be crystal clear here, this was a dream I had, I am not reading any more into it than what is biblical. I place it here for the one it was meant for?

A faithful retelling by Dust

I. The Cell

I have seen hell.

In a dream one night — seven years ago now — I was shown something I will never forget. I will tell it plainly, without adornment, as I remember it.

I was dressed in white: shirt, pants, slip-on fabric shoes. The room was the same — white walls, white marble floor and ceiling, a white sink, a white toilet, even the bars of the prison cell door.

Only my skin and tattoos retained their color.

There was a single bed, somehow suspended from the wall, and a strange sense of cleanliness that went beyond sterile — almost sacred in its emptiness.

When I touched the cell door, it swung open easily.

Outside, cells stretched in every direction — upward into the sky, downward into the depths. Each walkway mirrored the next, forming an infinite interior.

High above, inset strip-lights blazed white aluminum light, so intense it hurt to look at.

The brightness echoed against polished floors until it became sound itself — an endless hum of illumination.

Other souls, also clothed in white, walked the shining walkways toward a central elevator.

There were not many, but enough to suggest this place was vast beyond counting.

I joined them.

II. The Cafeteria

The elevator opened into what looked like a cafeteria or common area. Rows of tables stretched for what felt like fifty meters or more.

No one was eating, yet everyone behaved as if they were.

Groups of two or three sat together, whispering, pretending to dine.

I approached the largest group and asked softly,

“Where are we?”

A middle-aged man looked up — white collar, weary face.

“We are eating,” he said, his voice sharp, offended at the interruption.

He saw something in my face that unsettled him. His features hardened.

“Ask someone else.”

I tried again, at other tables. No one responded.

They stared into empty bowls, chewing nothing, lost in their own rehearsed motions.

Then they appeared.

They cannot be classified otherwise.

They were clothed in white, with hair, eyes, and even lips the same color.

Their alabaster skin was so pale and translucent it nearly blended with their suits.

“You won’t be able to wake them,” one teased, bending at the waist, hands on hips.

“It’s not for me to do,” I said, jaw set. “It’s Him in me.”

“They will never believe you,” he cackled, waving a white finger. “Hell is a prison no one sees, yet all remain trapped within. They’ll call you mad — one soul against the world.”

I turned my gaze upward and, within my being, called on Yeshua.

At once the white being vanished — scattered like sand before a directed wind.

An angel appeared and took my hand.

Together we rose through the ceiling, ascending high above the blinding cube.

III. The Barren Earth

From above, I saw it clearly: the white box I had been inside, square and sterile, sitting in a wasteland. The land around it was blasted and barren — dust and debris from fallen cities.

There were no hills, no living color — only rubble and ruin.

Higher still we went, and I saw more white cubes scattered across the plain, gleaming like tombs under an indifferent sky.

The angel set me down near a wrecked school bus, its side blown open by some forgotten impact. Its once-golden paint was now gray with grime, barely glinting in the dead light.

It was there I first saw them.

They cannot be called anything but them — the stripped ones, the remains.

Hands shorn of flesh, bone animated by will alone, reaching from the cracked earth.

Their rattling filled the air like dry leaves. Beneath it rose moans too deep for words — sorrow unending, agony beyond utterance.

I looked down and saw more — half-buried skeletons, grasping, endless.

In alarm I cried out, “Yeshua!”

Immediately, the angel grasped my hand and lifted me onto the bus.

He sat beside me, unbothered by the dust, his garments untouched by the ruin.

“Do they know they are in prison — the ones in the white boxes?” I whispered.

He seemed to ponder this and then said,

“The ones in the boxes are still alive — still given a chance to recognize the snare.

Out here are the dogs, the sorcerers, the liars, the murderers, and the rapists — those who would never have called upon the Name of the Lord.

This is their choice.”

At that I woke — heart racing, body cold with sweat.

I have never forgotten it.

I write this now, faithfully, as I first recorded it and later shaped it for clarity.

I make no claim of meaning beyond what aligns with Scripture.

Take it as you will, my friends.

I am still waiting, still listening.

For there is always more.

Dust