I have no vision. I cannot see a future. I won't make plans not because I won't be here but because 'there' won't be there' All I see is chaos, smoke and desolation. Is that wishful thinking? I'm exacting revenge on an imaginary future. It is as though clinging to hope, I've strangled myself.

I know were villians come from. They share a cradle with heroes. There are monsters in the darkness who lurk woefully. They tear at the flesh of the innocent, gnaw on the bones of lost children, and cause havoc and chaos in bright well-lit rooms. From the shadows of imagination, they sap the blood from cheerful firesides where pleasant people don't speak of dreadful things. They are our monsters. They are us. Without them we would never know pain, loss, or grief. Without them, we would never be human.
But we kill monsters, don't we? Don't we wield sharpened spears and drive gilded blades into the frozen, tar-filled hearts of our monstrous selves? We seek out the light and build great stone walls to keep the devils at bay. We adorn these walls with monuments to our inner heroes, shape their likeness in marble or bronze cast eternally to throwing Grendel into the fire, the pit, the darkness he came from. Perpetually blugeoning him with his own severed limb.
Weren't Gredel's acts in the service of love. Wasn't he seeking the comfort of the womb? In his most twisted monstrocity, blood-drenched and terrified wasn't he at his most naked? His most vulnerable human state?
Stories and myths are filled with the hearts of good men, the soil turned sour when faced with the wind of their most vile selves. Do they persevere? Do they emerge from these epics war-ravaged but unchanged? Can you slay your monster without giving him permanent residence in your heart. Of course you can't. That's why Jesus didn't kill Leigion. Killing a pig makes you a farmer. Killing your demons makes... Ancient Judea aside, Neitzche was right on some regard. When staring into the abyss, know the abyss is staring back at you-and in this moment you will find your character. However, if you look harder, you'll find parking.
Monsters are tortured and base versions of us. Clean, instinctual, diabolical and unfettered by the need to be respected or feared. Rulers of the shadowy corners of windmills, they demand nothing. They take without remorse. These inhabitants are self-actualized. Villians do as heroes dream. Truer versions of self than those who smother and choke their needs with a veil of self-deprivation. In this light heroism, as an act of self denial, is little more than a public means of masturbation.
Villains are heroes who act in lieu of pontification.
I once heard a definition of heroism as acts spured by surmountable degrees of hunger, cold and fear. A hero is someone who is cold enough, hungry enough, and frightened enough to shelve his concern for the consequences of his actions. To accept the reprucussions at at later date.
Villany is fruit from the same vine. But a villan's suffering is without limits. His needs can never be filled. He can destroy, consume, maim and inflict a swath of scorched earth in his path and the need is never sated. The pains never salved and the schism never made whole.