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  • Writer's pictureDamiaan van der Werf

Entrées de Nuit: II

Updated: Dec 21, 2023

Dreamt the night of the 14th of January 2023 and recollected as follows:


I found myself far out beyond the shore, afloat in a tranquil, azure-blue ocean that extended in all directions without apparent limit. Both ocean and sky were of crystalline composure, unblemished by any natural or contrived alterations, save for a few angelic-white clouds innocently dotted above. Unrestrained sunbeams saturated the entire field with a deep and reassuring warmth, producing iridescent refractions at the rim of the ocean out at the horizon. I could hear the disparate calls of the occasional seabird, as well as the gentle laps of benign waves beneath me. I concluded I must be somewhere tropical—the colour, quality and temperature of the ocean belied any possibility of latitudinal temperateness or extremity.


Although sensually idyllic, one could not disregard the evident perilousness of the situation. A downward glance through the glasslike waters exposed the literal depth of the predicament of my apparent strandedness. Furthermore, I had not caught sight of any landmass towards which I could attempt to make ground. Taking stock of this, my profound sense of comfort was periodically discoloured by comparably vivid pangs of nervous anxiety, stretching my inner state as though between distant poles.


I noticed that swimming beside me was an unidentified former school classmate—whether he had promptly appeared or been there the whole time was unclear. We began swimming, in a markedly convict and directed fashion toward what appeared to be an island—whose apparition I could likewise not attribute to its genuinely recent appearance or my not having noticed it prior to now. I determined that the island must be Cuba. As we commenced with our oceanic venture toward the island, I caught sight of something supremely disquieting, which in an instant reduced me to mortified heart-sunkenness—as though in an instant the blood had been drained from inside me; a litter of decapitated seal-heads were bobbing atop the ocean waves, seeping clouds of sanguineous maroon into the otherwise despoiled ocean. "The sharks are exceedingly accurate today", I fretted—although there was not a trace of any culprit in sight. With mounting dread, we hastened to swim faster toward Cuba. As we swam, the field of experience was forebodingly consumed by an invasive and engulfing blackness that clouded and stretched to all corners of my consciousness. Distraught lacerations of lighter colouration began to engrave themselves onto the uniform blackness, culminating in a frenzied haywire of uninterpretable etchings.

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