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I had no idea my hair was already so platinum until I sat in front of a tribal woman who was rubbing red over her emerald eyes. Beautiful, she was looking into the distance at the people at the cafe tables.

I just ate a homemade corn wrap with falafels and red cabbage. It was a brief, picturesque moment in the middle of a gloomy January. Even though I used to love my graying locks, I suddenly got scared of the time that passed on one leg. And I was only reading the second chapter of “One Hundred Years of Solitude”, didn’t understand anything yet. Who was I, who am I?

There was no transience in the tribal woman. A turquoise plume was woven into her raven hair, spread out like rays. Perhaps this woman was planning a trip. To Madagascar? To Aleksandrów? There was also a huge map within my view. I started to name out loud: New Zealand, Congo, Zimbabwe, Madagascar, Peru, and Greenland. But it felt like I had been there before. I ran on the green, soft hills in the middle of summer for infinity.

The wet sun peeked through the clear plastic roof above me. The coffee I drank was hot and the color of the lush earth from the garden where I grew up. My blue bike has long since become rusty and someone recently parked it in front of the hospital entrance. When I stepped out onto the street, my dream tripped on the sidewalk right in front of a Brazilian store. The view was blocked by a bus. But I was left with a scarf with a yellow and pink tiger, a magical gift from my sister. I wrap my neck in it every day so as not to lose a fraction of eternity, which sometimes is just a piece of plaster after renovation.

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