I am a witch, I am also a doctor. If you put those two together, you can say I am a witchdoctor. If you look it up on Wikipedia you'll find that witchdoctors are traditional healers in Third World Countries; which is dumb of course unless you say my country - with big buildings and people dying of cancer or other rich people sicknesses with the government giving money away for people to donate organs - is a Third World Country. I am a witch in every sense of the word, I keep a black cat and rabbits who help with my potions, black candles and curtains and sticks, I think you get the picture. I am also a doctor during the day, white coats and medical jargons. Need proof? I know what tachycardia is (and amyloidosis, and cardiac arrhythmia), but that is beside the point. I had a slight misunderstanding with my colleague the other day (she was being all-knowing and snobbish in the ER) and then she had an accident that broke her arm. Just last night a patient came in, needing brain surgery and since the aforementioned colleague was the best neurosurgeon there is, I had to stitch back up the arm of her voodoo doll. Being vengeful is sooo last few centuries; and look where the witches then ended - being burnt on their own magic sticks. I'd rather give voodoo dolls acupuncture and play doctor.

Contemplate this.

We risk changing permanently while we alter ourselves to cater for social needs. Different people react to different humour, different facial expressions, different degrees of earnestness. I become the funny me while with her, the sarcastic dry-witted me while with him and the honest me when with you. They are all me, but each embellished, each personalized to fit you. When the funny me meets the sarcastic dry-witted me and then the honest me comes along; I get confused, she gets confused, he gets confused and suddenly I’m the hypocrite. People don’t change. Only their social exoskeletons do.

Cassiopeia

So here they are, the words that we knew would resonate soundly in those sleepless mornings, enveloped with sighs and sounds. “I told you so”. Nobody but the dimmest fool believed in that projected hope shimmering and gleaming above the skies and thus he waited like the fool he is, hands outstretched and hearts alight. And when the stars did not fall he waited still, listening to their stories in spite of the cold, the darkness and the doubts. Until he realized how attached the stars are to the sky and would never pour down for him.

Helio

He locks away his words in the cloud that he is, swimming like his head in the sky waiting to pour down like rain in cascades. He is history in the making, struggling between hesitations and wading through life acquaintance by acquaintance. He dreams to live out his songs, embroidered with memories, thoughts and self made metaphors. He forgets like an old man looking for a lost lover. He laughs with his eyes and as his body vibrates with laughter the whole world and its occupants laugh too and crumble, but he does not even notice. And when he loves, he loves with silence and hushed endearments. He is a dream I wake up to every morning, the star I cannot reach and sometimes the light shines through him and it is like he is not there.