I am here, thinking of escaping the mundane. I must be insane to even think of a life beyond deadlines. My mind - a wanderer, reminds me always. Do something else. You’ve earned your laurels. Let your mind rest. Calm that beast. Do that at least and begin the conquest. So speaks my mind. So kind of it to let me be. It finally came to a halt. “I’ll finally have my single malt”, I wondered and began to wander. My feet started to speak. “Where’s the bloody peak?” “How high is the mountain?” “Why am I this weak?” I didn’t have an answer. I didn’t have any answers. I was hunting for feats and my feet had turned fragile. “How will you wander now?” “I can see the moon”, said the eyes. “I can even dream. when you can’t even scream.” The eyes were confident, full of love. “Get ready for ascent”, the eyes powered the feet, and so the wanderer was reborn from his own defeat.
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.