Photography has always been my way of communicating with the world—a language that speaks in shadows, lights, and fleeting moments. But there are times when even the most tranquil of landscapes can echo something deeper, more turbulent. That's exactly what I experienced when I shot the photograph I later titled "Unsteadied Nightmares." It was the Dolomites, just before dawn—a hauntingly beautiful place where jagged peaks rise abruptly against the sky, and alpine lakes mirror their majesty in breathtaking symmetry. I had been here before, but this morning felt different. The world was suspended in that fragile space between night and day, where dreams teeter on the edge of nightmares. The lake was still, its surface smooth as glass, a perfect canvas for the mountains to paint their reflection. The moment was ripe for a photographer's dream shot—mountain peaks mirrored perfectly in the water, untouched by the harsh light of the sun. Yet, beneath the serene surface of the scene, I felt an unsettling undercurrent.

My tripod was set, camera ready, and I stood there in the crisp alpine air, waiting for the first hint of light. The quiet was absolute—no wind, no birdsong, nothing but the weight of the landscape pressing in. But as I looked through the viewfinder, I realized something. My hands, usually steady and practiced, were trembling ever so slightly. The scene before me was so flawless it seemed surreal, almost too perfect—like a dream. Yet, dreams have a way of unraveling, especially when you're caught in the uncertainty between night and dawn. In that twilight zone, your mind plays tricks on you. A rock formation looks like a shadow moving, the reflection in the water seems to ripple when it hasn’t. That’s when the title "Unsteadied Nightmares" came to me.

AIt was more than just a shot of the mountains and their mirror image in the lake. It captured a personal struggle, one that wasn’t visible in the landscape but was happening inside me. The stillness outside contrasted with the storm I felt within—a sense of unease, an unnamed anxiety, like something was about to break but never did. As the sky shifted from a deep indigo to a pale lavender, I knew I had to act quickly. The window of opportunity was narrow, and in a few minutes, the sun would rise too high, washing out the muted colors and sharp contrasts. I pressed the shutter, each click capturing the moment before the dawn could bleach it away.

The photograph, in the end, was beautiful—but more than that, it was haunting. The reflection was so clear it felt like looking into a different reality, one where the line between dream and nightmare was blurred. The peaks seemed to float in the water, unreal and almost menacing in their stillness. The title I chose, "Unsteadied Nightmares," felt fitting—not because the scene itself was terrifying, but because it captured that fragile balance between beauty and fear, between calm and chaos, that I had felt standing there in the early morning dark. In the end, "Unsteadied Nightmares" became more than just a photograph for me. It was a reminder that even in the most peaceful places, we carry our inner storms. That, sometimes, it's not the landscape that is unsteady, but the one capturing it. As I packed up my gear and watched the sun crest over the Dolomites, flooding the valley with light, the haunting feeling finally began to fade. But the image—both in my mind and in my camera—stayed with me, a reflection of that unsettling, beautiful moment before dawn.

• Camera: Phase One P65+
• Lens: 35mm
• Filters: Lee
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