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By Ruth Calder Murphy (Arciemme)

Image: Lanterns in the Grand Bazaar.jpg - Wikimedia

Where do I travel, every night on my bed?

Or every day, in my head, when I should, perhaps

be doing other things - more solid things - than “travelling”…

Dimensions open like Aladdin’s cave and whisper seductions

to my imagination -

and hold me captive with Abracadabra and Open Sesame

and actually, with simply a nod and a wink at the glittering chink

in the door, ajar, and the unguarded entrance to my own

Zanzibar… (Or any other destination, far or near,

that isn’t here…)

Where do I travel?

Through all the world; the freezing and burning, the twisting and turning

of galaxies and seasons and oceans - through all the world and all the worlds,

magicked to parallels and possibles and variables and things that make “reality”

more bearable.

Travellers are known by the cast of their glance

and the slant of their soul,

by something barely there - like the shimmering haze of summer -

the way they gaze at thin air and see things there,

the reflection of other skies in their eyes.

Where do I travel, every night on my bed and every day in my head?

I travel the world and travel my soul and travel in and out and through…

and sometimes, in my travelling, I catch a glimpse of you

- all of you - who travel too.

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