The tumour has spread the rumour that humour is dead. The cells shells the truth like a mistress on duty. The blood is the flash flood consuming life out of your soul. Under the skin, pain is akin to terror. The nerves serve no purpose in the grave. When the brain is set to drain your emotions out, you can only sit & shout. When the air turns rare, and every breath turns into death, you stop to care. When cancer needs a cure, and your intentions are pure, you can and you will, survive.
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.