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.