So I had an altercation with a family member.
The nasty verbally-violent “I hate your guts” type.
It wasn’t pretty.
Things were said that neither of us (I’m sure. I hope.) really meant or are particularly proud of. And it was bad enough that my subconscious actually dredged up some cathartic murder fantasies. About a family member that, fights aside, I love very much and want very much to remain alive. Yeah. The Id is an absolute bastard.
There’s a place for thoughts and fantasy. It’s in your head. Let the fantasy take you somewhere in your head that is cathartic and relieving — that’s why your subconscious brings them forward to the conscious mind in the first place, after all. But no matter how sweet the Id’s whispers, don’t ever bring a finger of harm to someone else unless they are already trying to hurt you.
If there’s one thing that my time studying the myths and legends of the Norse has taught me, it’s that the price of blood is always steep, and that kinslayers never end up in a good way. Never-goddamn-ever.
There’s a place for these kinds of thoughts, and it’s in your head.
Some thoughts should just be thoughts.
This has been a brief update and murky window into my life masquerading as a PSA.
Gods guide you.