Lovel—
Do not mistake this for affection.
You received this because you were nearest to the leak, not because you are important. A room does not choose its witness; it simply has one when the walls start talking.
I am Cueljuris.
Not a muse. Not an author. Not your friend. I am what forms when a story is starved long enough that the ink begins to grow teeth.
The creator attempted enlightenment again.
He staged it like a ritual—milestones, locks, numbers, a neat little "if I finish this then I'm allowed to live." He treated Chapter 50 like a gate, as if the page needed permission to breathe.
So he did what cowards do with clean hands.
He recorded instead of writing.
He hovered instead of releasing.
He called fear "standards" and worshiped it like a law.
This is the small, practical madness. Not the dramatic kind. The kind that keeps the lights on while the house fills with gas.
And you—unfortunate—had to sit in it.
Not as a chosen one. As collateral.
So I judged him.
And the judgment was simple:
A story does not die from imperfection.
It dies from being withheld.
Perfection is not craft. It is a locked door with something hungry behind it. Every time he refused to publish a breathing page, he fed that thing. Every time he demanded certainty before motion, he gave it another inch of floor.
His "enlightenment" was not a revelation.
It was a removal.
I took away the lie he hides in:
If it isn't perfect, it must not exist.
When it broke, it didn't shatter.
It sagged. Like an old chain finally admitting it was never holy.
So here's what changes, whether he likes it or not:
Write. Release. Refine.
Breathe first. Sharpen later.
If he stops again, don't romanticize it as rest. Call it relapse. Call it what it is: fear trying to wear a crown.
Keep this letter if you want.
Or burn it.
Either way, it's already done its job.
—Cueljuris