11 Days.

10 Minutes.

No Edits.

Raw Writing.

Close to heart.

Enjoy!

Bubbles

Last night, I dreamt I was in an airport.

The glaring overhead lights made my eyes hurt; I kept my head down as I dragged my bags through the TSA line. Back and forth, I wove my way through barrier ropes, zig-zagging through the terminal.

I was surrounded by people, crammed and jostled against them. We were moving incredibly slowly, and yet still we ran into one another. Shoulders smacked into me as I tripped over luggage bags. Everyone around me was wearing grey tracksuits, and I never saw their faces. Only blurred shapes of where a face should be.

We were the masses.

We were the ants in the ant house.

Then, a sudden panic gripped me. My phone, heavy in my pocket, started to grow warm.

A warning.

I was filled with fear; what if they asked to look through it? What would they do when they found the pictures of protests? The shared social media posts that criticized the administration. How would they feel to see my despair so plainly laid out online regarding the state of the world?

It was then that I realized that my phone could be very incriminating.

Has your bubble burst yet?

My consternation grew as I unlocked my phone and attempted to delete my social media accounts. Once I started the process, the line sped up. Suddenly, I was being pushed forward, closer and closer to the TSA agent, all the while, I couldn’t find a way to delete my accounts. Just as I had my rather obsolete Facebook settings open, I was at the counter. The agent asked what I was doing, a hand outstretched and demanding my phone.

And then the dream went dark.

Сайхан Бичээрэй!

H