He is obsessed with compassion & addicted to rhymes. He drives into the vault of poignancy, in his tough times. He relaxes himself on the seat of serenity. He unlids the bottle to wreck enmity. The pint when entered the body of the glass, it revealed the truths of all class. It wiped off every anguish hidden deep down inside. It refreshed past memories & took him on a long ride. It made him loiter on the path of loneliness. He became sick & tired and couldn’t forgo stress. He had lust for words more than for women. He didn’t carry bouquets, but was laden with pen. He was not fascinated by cabaret on the stage. He was always enamored with lyrics on a page.
Seasons turn, yet their rhythm never falters. The rains arrive when they must, the sun blazes in its time, and winter winds whisper their quiet chill. So too with this blog—its name carries a deliberate flaw, a gentle reminder that mistakes are part of us, often unnoticed, sometimes beautiful. Let this one be the sweetest slip of all: where Ameet becomes a myth, and myths find their faith. That's "Ameethyst"—born of imperfection, yet gleaming all the more for it.