I am not asleep. I am alert, like a spider web stretched across the entrance of a cave. I am aware of the dangers that lurk nearby. If they see the web, they may tear me down, thinking that I’m hiding something inside. Not thinking that the web itself should have been kept alive.

*

I wish this were merely a dream, but it’s starkly real. I dwell in a strange place, right where dreams and reality weave. The struggle of being in both worlds is agonizing.

*

I find myself dozing off, the screen’s glow illuminating my face. TV shows flicker in and out. I can’t recall where I began or where I’ll end. Everything blurs in an endless cycle. Commercials blend into the content.

*

The lawyers provide strange advice. Layers, they say. Leggings—my inner shield. Every-day clothes—the buffer. A coat—the final layer. This protection is about survival. Extra warmth for whatever lies ahead, particularly if I am taken quickly and denied comfort in custody.

These lawyers…they talk about severity. I’ve only engaged with family lawyers before. Attorneys in my family handle property, even ships, but not political turmoil.

It’s true. They won’t harm your body. But the mind… it’s fair game. No blanket, no medication—just silence. I have to tell my lawyers about the pills that I’m taking regularly. Lawyers have to make sure I’ll get them if they take me into custody.

What counts as torture? Murky territory. Focus disperses. Start assessing the line, mental vs. physical torture. Experiencing both, yet none. Sleek torturer. My country.

*

I signed a petition—over a thousand shared my sentiments. Guilt creeps in. I wrestle with the notion of being labeled as the enemy. Of the state.

*

Yesterday, I received recognition in exile. A fleeting moment of pride, shattered when I recalled how my face appeared alongside another vile designation: traitor. Any kind of recognition feels like an exposé. My details laid bare, a beacon for those eager to extinguish my existence. I am here—just scared and incomplete. Sometimes, I pinch myself to wake up during a nightmare.

*

A mafia leader said, “We will take a shower in their blood.” In his statement, “their” referred to us, the petitioners. I have given this statement careful consideration—both literally and figuratively—reflecting on its political, physical, psychological, and physiological implications.

Every time I think of that phrase, it feels as though my insides are twisting. My eyelids seem to flip backward, and my gums pull back to expose the horror within. The waves recede into the sea, leaving behind the ocean’s contents strewn across the shore.

*

Thoughts rotting. Head feels heavy. Pollution is closing in. People leave fast, can’t breathe. Showerhead’s clogged. With blood. I wake up. It’s just another nightmare.

*

My friends and acquaintances remain silent, just as they always have. It’s fascinating how fascism acts as a powerful tranquilizer, offered at no cost. People seem to prefer it under this blanket of fear. They act like it’s cozy, not thinking for a second that one day it’s going to become too heavy for them, too.

*

Home’s never been a safe place.

*

Exile truly makes one feel as if devoid of viscera. It’s as if one has lost the core of one’s existence.

*

At the interview. The officer asks, “What’s the danger?”

“I wish I knew. It’s so random.”

The vaguest answer you can give, right? Especially when not being specific could land you in trouble and result in deportation. As if you ever had any real details to share, since in your moral universe, you’ve never done anything wrong.

*

Idaho to Chicago. Three days, maybe less. Hail was pounding down. Trucks flipped over on the road, like toys cast aside. Wind howling. Had to pull over many times just to catch our breath. My son, behind me, pulling faces. Snap, snap—his silliness sparkles in the darkness.

Chicago. An old Hilton in a worn-down neighborhood. Bad. Yes, very bad. Big room, but the air is heavy and cloudy. Dinner? A Greek place across the street. Lottery machines flashing, people—Greek and Eastern European—sharing stories around tables. Feta? No comfort this time. Sour and sharp. Like disappointment.

*

Night, a battlefield of my life’s narrative. Fragmented pieces scattered—dates etched, deaths marked, milestones recorded, journeys captured. A folder crammed with sticky notes and page dividers, my existence resembling a rigid business plan. I must memorize it all. “Dates, names—a struggle,” I confess to my lawyer. My voice trembles slightly.

“It’s fine,” the lawyer reassures; “I’ll connect via Zoom, too. I’ll guide you. Stick to the facts.”

Just facts. Cold. Unyielding. No deviations. Deviate, and new questions emerge. “I understand,” I reply, a resolute academic. References are my anchors, not a single paraphrase will wander. Everything quoted precisely. Yet, what if…

And she does. The officer strays from the script. As the interview concludes, and I feel like a puppeteer, she dares to ask about emotions. Suddenly, the rigid script morphs—wood becoming ligaments, veins pulsating with life. Flesh forms, blood spills—dripping over the cold, hard facts. She kills my puppet on stage.

The husband steps inside, the son trailing, shadows stretching behind them. Questions swirl, uncertainty in the air. I melt into the background, the silent witness to this tangled web of lives and choices.

An officer breaks the tension with a riddle, something about “The Bean.” I respond with hesitation, the weight of the three-day journey back “home” heavy on my mind. Her eyes convey understanding, a glimpse of empathy. She hopes for our safe passage, but the riddle stays. A cryptic clue about new beginnings or ends in a foreign land.

*

No time for the scenic route past Kapoor’s striking creation. Instead, we resort to Google. The images show a structure like liquid mercury, bending the horizon, reflecting the fleeting clouds. I catch myself—how rarely I look up, my attention consumed by the road, my script. I raise my eyes, longing for a glimpse of the sky. I think about home, wishing it were a small bean I could carry in my pocket, planting it wherever feels right. The last time I felt safe? Perhaps it was in another bean. With the promise of a new life.