Every story begins as a wound.
Every world begins as a confession.
The saga was never meant to entertain but to survive its own author. Pain, when written, becomes architecture—it stops being chaos and starts resembling truth. Each monologue began as a wound that refused silence; each god was merely a language for the thing that could not be said: I hurt, and I did not know how to stop.
Lucifer’s rebellion, Lilith’s exile, Charon’s surrender—all were disguises for human ache, the daily endurance of those who survive others’ endings—rehearsals of loss turned to scripture.
To transmute suffering into myth is an act of controlled detonation. Pain cannot be erased, so it must be ritualized. Myth is how memory forgives itself. The moment sorrow finds rhythm, it becomes prayer.
I wrote not to remember but to bleed without dying, to transmute biography into cosmology. Writing was never therapy. It was anatomy—cutting open despair to learn its organs, naming each until they ceased to terrify. Every reader, knowingly or not, repeats that ritual: they recognize themselves inside the divine machinery and call it fiction, but it is a shared dissection of memory.
There are no stories—only autopsies of feeling, wrapped in metaphor to make them bearable. Because once the wound learns to speak, it no longer bleeds; it sings.