Dreams from the Darkness: A Descent Beyond the Edge

Introduction

Dreams are distorted reflections of ourselves—twisted, stretched, reversed. Sometimes they frighten, sometimes they soothe, and sometimes they open doors that should have remained shut.

I opened them. And this is what I saw.

Here are two dreams.

The first — a premonition.

The second — a breakdown.

Both were born in the night, like screams that left no echo.

Neither left me the same.

Dream One: At the Edge

I wake up—and I’m already standing at the edge of a cliff. The night is thick and absolute. Only the moon slowly slips out from behind the clouds, casting a pale light over the restless sea. In the distance, almost in the center of the abyss, I see a silhouette—human in shape, unmoving, like it’s cut from the darkness itself.

I’m overcome with a need to get closer, to see who it is, what they’re doing here, in this silence. But below the cliff—razor-sharp rocks, like the jaws of a predator ready to shred anything that missteps for a second.

I step back—maybe fifty meters—and sprint forward, leaping with everything I have, trying to clear the rocks. In the air—only the wind and my heartbeat. I crash into the water and swim toward the figure.

As I get closer, I realize: it’s not human. And not some creature of the sea. It’s something in-between. Its face has large fangs. Its skin is pale, thinly covered in fine hair, like it once was human—but crossed a line long ago.

“How are you?” I ask.

The creature turns to me. Its voice echoes as if from another reality:

“It’s time to leave. Time to know a new world.”

“What world?” I ask.

“A world you don’t yet know. But its sweetness—you’ll taste in the first moments.”

It dives into the depths. I follow.

And just as the water closes above me—I wake up.

Dream Two: The Abyss Within

The water devours me—cold, thick, as if it’s not liquid, but death itself dissolved in blackness. I sink deeper, following the creature, but it fades into the darkness like a mirage swallowed by madness. The world above is gone. No moon. No sky. No breath. Just darkness, ringing silence, and the feeling—I’ve crossed something final.

I no longer know if I’m swimming or just falling. Space unravels. Panic comes, but my body doesn’t respond. Even my heart—seems to have stopped.

And then I realize: I’m not dying. I already died.

But death isn’t the end. It’s the slow decay of awareness stretched forever.

The creature stops. I approach. Its eyes—black, bottomless. It opens its mouth—bone cracking—and speaks words that penetrate, not through ears, but into being:

“You feel it now. Identity is temporary. Flesh is just a pretext.”

“Why me?” asks a voice that isn’t mine.

“Because you cracked. Cracks are doors. You opened it yourself.”

The darkness begins to look back. I feel it seep in—not as pain, but as otherness. The creature melts—but does not leave. It enters me. Or replaces me.

“The end doesn’t arrive. It’s born inside you,” the voice says.

I don’t know if it’s his or mine.

I become emptiness.

Not calm. Not kind. Cold. Eternal. Alien.

I am not forgotten. I am abandoned. In this place where even forgetting is a privilege.

And the dark is already watching the next.

I don’t know what these dreams mean. Maybe they’re just dreams.

Or maybe they showed what we fear to think about:

That the line between me and not-me is not a wall, but a whispering mist.

That the void doesn’t kill. It absorbs.

And sometimes, we’re not looking for a way out—just a reason to disappear.