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There’s something attractive about a traumatized soul.  Society has a fetish with the dark spirit of those who have suffered.  The chair I sit in now has been respite for many a weary traveler.  From this chair I see charcoal drawings; I hear Gypsy Jazz; I taste the ocean air; I smell grass fed ginger steak being cooked in the kitchen; and I feel welcome, at home.  The ceiling fan circulates above me, lending a slight breeze within the humidity.  I will be served a cylantro bean burrito before I move on.  I don’t eat steak.  For now, I bask in this luxury amidst my travels, discovering new levels of poetry, layers of mind, venues of my own spirit.  Travelers are a special breed, often carrying on with nothing but the hospitality of strangers, the good will of the common man.  When there is opportunity, we give back, though often they want naught.  There is an intense value from unconditionally participating in humanity.  There is a reward that cannot be seen, but it echoes within our souls and is exhibited in the poetry of every artistic medium.  I thank the artists of the world simply for existing.  I humbly take my place in the community.  I am a gypsy in solitude and remembrance, a poet upon this earth, dwindling with the rest, hoping to offer something to our world that does not destroy it.

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