Satanism is realism, unmasked. It refuses the pious fairytale of mandatory forgiveness and the superstition that every death is sacred. People aren’t saints; some make it their hobby to wreck you. When one of those finally leaves the stage—by justice, chance, or time—name it plainly: that’s a win. You don’t owe reverence to someone who would’ve cheered your collapse.
LaVey never pretended enemies don’t exist. He named them and gave you a pressure valve: the destruction ritual. Not cosplay, not a hit list—focus. You take the heat already chewing your gut, shape it, and fire it at a symbol so it stops ricocheting inside you. Most whisper what you’re allowed to say out loud: I want that threat gone.
And when the threat is gone? You celebrate survival. That isn’t sadism; it’s relief with a spine. It’s the day a page of ritual steps off the altar and into the world. The one who worked for your fall met their own. You’re still here. Raise a glass and mark the fact.
This is a refusal of counterfeit morality—the kind that demands your pity while offering you none. It fits Satanism’s demand for honesty over sermon-face. We don’t mourn tyrants, abusers, or would-be wreckers. We mark their fall and keep moving.
Keep the line bright: ritual is symbolic, and celebration never licenses harm to innocents or crimes in the real world. Autonomy isn’t cuddly—it’s accountable.
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