I’ve been reading the “Red Book” of Jung for several years, very intermittently, as it’s often slow going.

Yesterday I chanced upon a passage in which he describes the role of the spirit of the depth in sweeping away the spirit of the times, a force that subjects the individual to harshness, cruelty, and she’s the blood and iron and fire beneath quotidian existence. The spirit of the depths is full of horrors.

I awoke in the middle of the night, my daughter frightened and ready to climb into our bed. I considered this as I helped her settle and return to sleep in our bed, and then reviewed the ideas as her static configuration prevented the adjustments which would have allowed me to sleep.

I have seen horrors in my life; death and disease, despair and disoluteness. I’ve seen the brilliant young dead pointlessly before their time, and the old who live long enough to make execrable ashes of everything they’ve built.

In my young life I’ve been shouted at and disrespected, I’ve been hurt and mocked, and I’ve seen my hopes and dreams come to bitter and twisted mockeries.

I’ve seen horrors. And if I have quiet and peace at this time in my life, I’ve certainly earned it through the violence my spirit has suffered.

I find myself longing for meaning, a friend, a mentor with whom I can share these dark thoughts. But there’s only me.

Would I bring a people to war to satisfy these inclinations, become an adventurer conquerer like the chieftains I admire for their names, Charlemagne and Frederick Barbossa?

The time for such giant continent spanning wars has passed. I may conquer huge swaths through voluntary assent and symbolic economic warfare. I can form a corporation and a philanthropic organization, and with my riches they’ll welcome me to remake their world.