an ode to a potato plant

Looking up.

6.30 am. I’m awake. The sun won’t come up for another two hours. I count the minutes until daybreak. The deepest blues are black.

Every morning is the same — I cook coffee in a džezva on the stove. I’ve given up on specialty coffee shops. I don’t like the taste anymore. Mostly, the espressos are sour and watered down. Give me strong Italian espressos. Give me Turkish coffee with cardamom. Give me the world.

I whisk two eggs in a bowl. Pepper. Scrambled eggs take two minutes to prepare. The protein boost lasts until midday. Better than a line of blow, my mother jokes.

I message her first thing in the morning.

It takes me twenty minutes to dry my hair. I need a haircut.

It’s a public holiday in the Czech Republic. The independence of the Czechoslovak state. I see flags everywhere. Even at the front of tram carriages. Would it be treason to secretly replace them with flags of the Philippines? I wonder what’s the point of it all.

Again, I’m too early at the airport. No passport control.

I think how national borders are meaningless. Artificial, imagined. Imagined Borders.

I dreamt of Costa Rica. Emptiness. I shouldn’t miss him.

My plane is beginning to descend. A weekend in the Netherlands awaits me. Prague, it’s not you; it’s me.

I can feel all the places I’m yet to go. Brimming inside me. Waiting. I already know everything I need to know. It’s the question of reaching that knowledge wherever it is.

love & war

Early October mornings in Prague.

I wake up to heavy raindrops beating on my windows. I accidentally left one of the double-glass wings cracked open the night before; a rush of cold air envelops me.

Even at seven in the morning, orange street light fills my apartment. It feels so unnatural. Ugly. I stretch slowly and groan. I am dreading the upcoming winter weeks. Because late October feels bad enough already. Recently, a friend told me, you are a solar-powered human. I truly am.

The live version of This Time for Africa has been on repeat this entire week. The song rings in my mind when I am not listening to it.

One more day. Before I leave again.

He’s still messaging me. They all are. I only respond to Fuego. His fire to my light. It’s been six months. I’m restless for another road trip with him.

I run down my list of upcoming trips and I feel blessed, grounded, and grateful. Being able to leave whenever I want calms me down.

I’ve been practicing. Breathing, writing daily, keeping my head high, and clear.

My body craves inversions. I fold myself up in a door frame with ease now.

Too much sugar lately. Daily chocolate, homemade almond macarons. But it’s only temporary.

I’m counting off the days until home. 58.