ECLIPSE: THE REVELATION OF THE TRUE SELF
Some whispers come from the darkness. Others rise from the parts of ourselves we are afraid to face.
The moon was red.
In my dream, the sky burned crimson, and the world beneath it trembled. Bridges crumbled, the earth split open, and distant waters swallowed everything in their path. I stood frozen, watching a disaster unfold as though I had seen it somewhere before. Then came a voice—calm, masculine, and strangely familiar.
“Be patient. Wait for the right time.”
I woke with my heart pounding. The room was silent, but the feeling remained, following me long after sunrise.
For years, I had been the bubbly Gemini, the girl who laughed easily and found something to smile about. Few people knew how many questions lived behind that cheerful face. I was Lea Faye, a dreamer with a childhood filled with experiences I never fully understood.
When I was young, I once looked at a statue of Mother Mary and said that praying to it was useless without holy water. My words frightened the adults around me. My late Lola discouraged me from exploring such experiences, perhaps because she worried about what I might encounter. I eventually learned to stay quiet. Yet the questions never disappeared. They simply waited in the dark corners of my memory.
After turning thirty last May, I began paying closer attention to my dreams. The crimson Red Moon returned, accompanied by images of earthquakes, tsunamis, and roaring fires. I also dreamed of an earthquake in Davao and collapsing bridges before hearing about real events that reminded me of those images.
The coincidences unsettled me. Were my dreams warnings, reflections of my fears, or fragments of memories that my mind had woven together? I wanted answers, but every possible explanation seemed to lead to another question.
My search brought me to spiritual healers and stories about my family’s ancestral traditions in Mindanao. I wondered whether there was a connection between those traditions and the unusual experiences I had carried since childhood. Sometimes, I dreamed of unfamiliar places I had never visited. Other nights, I imagined comforting people who had passed away. I also noticed a warmth in my hands when I tried to comfort someone.
These moments felt significant, but I could not explain them with certainty. The more I searched, the more I realized how frightening it could be to live between what I felt and what I could actually know.
Then came the masked man.
In one vivid dream, a mysterious masculine figure appeared, concealing an image of a woman. His presence filled me with unease, as though something unfinished stood between us. He seemed to represent hidden identities, secrets, and truths waiting to be uncovered. I could not explain why the image stayed with me, but I remembered it long after the dream had faded.
The calm voice returned in other dreams, repeating its message of patience, timing, and protection. I began searching for meaning in every detail. I wondered whether the dreams were connected, whether I was overlooking something, or whether my desire for answers was making ordinary coincidences feel extraordinary.
That search eventually led me to tarot.
I found Moonveil Tarot while looking for guidance about my dreams and intuition. What began as a series of readings gradually became an emotionally significant connection. I returned with questions, hoping that someone might help me make sense of experiences I struggled to explain.
At times, I felt understood. At other times, I was left confused by mixed signals and emotional distance. I found myself wondering whether the connection meant more than it did, whether I had misunderstood certain words, and why something that once brought comfort could eventually leave me feeling unsettled.
Then Moonveil began appearing in my dreams.
One dream placed her inside a strange digital room. There was an administrator, unfamiliar surroundings, and a masculine figure wearing a cat mask. The details felt strangely vivid, as though I had entered a hidden chapter of a story I had not finished reading.
In another dream, an ancient book glowed in the darkness. Its pages seemed to carry a warning:
“There is one who works behind the veil. Not with love, but with intention. Words are spells. Intentions are rituals. Energy is the weapon.”
I woke wondering whether the message meant anything beyond the dream itself. For a moment, I feared it was a warning about someone in my life. My imagination filled the silence with possibilities, each one more unsettling than the last.
But fear can turn uncertainty into suspicion, and a vivid dream cannot establish another person’s intentions. I had to ask myself a difficult question: Was I discovering a hidden truth, or was I trying to make sense of my own hurt through the language of mystery?
Moonveil had once called me a favorite client, yet eventually our connection felt distant and transactional. That change hurt more than I expected. I had searched for guidance, but somewhere along the way, I had also begun searching for reassurance and emotional understanding.
I wanted an explanation for the distance. I wanted to know whether I had misunderstood the connection. Most of all, I wanted certainty.
But not every unanswered question hides a secret. Sometimes, disappointment is simply disappointment. Sometimes, people do not feel the same way we do. And sometimes, the hardest truth is accepting that we may never know exactly why things changed.
Moonveil became part of my story, but she would not be the author of its ending.
I began to understand that I could respect my spiritual beliefs without treating every dream as a prophecy. I could explore my family’s traditions without claiming abilities I could not establish. I could acknowledge my fears without allowing them to control my decisions.
Perhaps the masked man represented the uncertainty I was afraid to face. Perhaps the glowing book reflected my growing awareness of how deeply words can influence us. Perhaps the voice reminding me to be patient was the part of myself that had been waiting for me to listen.
I may never know for certain.
And perhaps I no longer need to.
My awakening is not about proving that I possess extraordinary powers or that every mysterious experience carries a supernatural message. It is about finding the courage to examine my past, question my assumptions, and recognize the difference between intuition and fear.
I still dream. I still wonder. The darkness has not answered every question, but it no longer has to frighten me into inventing answers.
I am learning to choose curiosity over fear, discernment over assumption, and self-respect over endless validation. I want relationships built on honesty and consistency. I want to protect my peace without becoming suspicious of everyone around me. I want to understand myself without losing myself in the search.
Both sides are me: the bubbly Gemini who laughs beneath the sunlight and the thoughtful woman who searches for meaning beneath the moon.
My name is Lea Faye. A Gemini. A dreamer. A woman learning to face her shadows without mistaking every shadow for a threat.
The eclipse has begun. Not because I have uncovered every secret, but because I have finally found the courage to look within.
And perhaps the darkest revelation of all is this: sometimes, the thing we must confront is not a mysterious force waiting in the shadows, but the fear that has kept us from trusting ourselves.
Some secrets are written in the stars. Others are revealed when we dare to face the darkness within.
— Lea Faye ♊🦋
To be continued…
Part III: Faye Vision Revelation — Where Dreams Speak, Beyond What We See.
