For the sake of a moral point that we wish to argue, let us propose the following:
The plains bear witness to great meadows. The flora here, though not diverse, overwhelms by its scale. The grass sways in the wind, green and lush. Its green is nearly invisible, blocked as it is from sight by its brown, tall, wheat-like brothers, those tall stalks peculiar to the prairies. Overhead, the sun is in the zenith. The wind presses on these flowers of the plains, weaving and jumping through the occasional gaps that can be seen, leaving as evidence of its presence a sound ubiquitous in nature, a rustling similar to the sound an unremitting rainfall makes on pavement, identical to the sound of a great exhalation.
But this field is not our focus. We who are writing these words care very little for landscapes. We care more for she who runs through it.
A filly moves unrestrained in the meadows. She stomps on the short green grass with impunity. The tall grass bends and breaks as she moves through, yielding with a bow to her power. The sun beats down upon her face. Though the air is bright, though the grass is lush, these things come nowhere near to the brightness of her smile and the lushness of her face. She laughs as the wind whips her mane; it feels as if it blows with an intent to carry her away, and she feels she could spread her wings—or, if she has no wings, her limbs—to fly away wherever she pleases. But she doesn’t. She chooses to stay firmly planted on the ground, and her laughs change from those of contemptuous insolence into those of delight at the possibilities that are open to her.
The inevitability of youth is diversity. And her life is infinite. She lives in the firmament.
This filly, this embodiment of youth, has this amazing quality; that is, she is incorruptible by direct means. For youth is reactive. Let evil come at youth suddenly; if she does not destroy it outright, she dodges it with deft ability. Evil may be unrelenting, youth may be tried by it, attacked, bruised, bled, but she always comes on top, for she knows blatant evil when she sees it, and she stands for justice. Blatant evil threatening consecrated right—she knows with which she stands, and she adjusts her tools appropriately. Evidence for this phenomenon? Evil exists; youth exists; evil tries youth—evil, at least in its classic, most recognizable form, has yet to destroy youth completely.
It seems that this natural marvel, that is, youth, that is, the purest form of life, happiness, and joy, is unassailable, ultimate. A titan against impotent pygmies. The latter are jealous of the former’s splendor, and they try time and time again to mount this colossus, falling back over and over again, trying new and new ways to grab her throat, failing each time. How can these demons win?
It is actually quite simple. Allow us to demonstrate:
Attacking her outright is fruitless. She identifies you as the threat and crushes you beneath her feet. She’s a macrophage, and you’re bacteria. Therefore, if you integrate yourself with her environment, she won’t know that you’re the one killing her. Cease to be the bacteria, and become the immunodeficiency virus. In short, be subtle.
First, cover her meadow with blood. Whose blood? This does not matter. For what reasons? For princess, country, ideology; these, too, do not matter. How much blood? Not too much at first; just enough to be seen but not enough for her to recognize it as a massacre. Simply make her choose to stay indoors one day.
She’ll stay in the room the first day, perhaps the second as well. But, eventually, her courage will start to build. How to stanch this inexorable force? Make the battlefield bloodier. Make the weapons more terrible. As soon as she gains confidence, make her opponent that much stronger. But do it gradually, in order that she may not notice.
Sustain this for long enough. Despair will soon set in for her. Do not let it. For once complete despair takes hold of her, you’ve poisoned the treasure you wished to corrupt; your treasure will die with the knowledge that she was good. Instead, under the pretense of delivering her, lock her in a dark cave. If she protests, call the cave a stable; say it’ll protect her.
She’ll be scared at first, but she’ll adapt. She’ll become pale and emaciated. Her strong legs that had once carried her through the meadow will barely allow her to ascend the stairs you have built. Replace the yellow sun with fluorescent lights, and she’ll stop seeing colors. Through this process, make her writhe on the ground, slurp processed food from cans, beg and supplicate to those whom, if not for this illusion, she would’ve instantly seen as her inferiors.
From this spirit, which had appeared so impenetrable, you will have successfully created an eyeless worm, fit only for slithering through the dirt, spending all its life trying to grasp just that little pocket of air.
This state has the peculiar quality in that, though it is base and corrupt, there is still a latent strive for happiness. Youth will try, wondering what is making her unhappy, thinking that there is still that which is worth living for, but never realizing it was you that had set her in such a wretched state. She’ll find others, like her, others that you’ve put with her in the stable in the same manner and with the same intent as a competitor who displays his trophies on a shelf. She will try to find happiness; but her offspring, her daughter, will be nothing like her progenitor. This new creature will be complacent. Unlike her mother, this new creature did not come into the world smiling. She scowls, swears, is dismissive to outside opinions. But in her mind, she carries a conflict; she has a vague conception of what should, could have been, while she sees around her that which is. There is a discordance that cannot be fought. She perceives her mind as base, and that which you’ve subjected her to as normal. Now here is the abject despair that you’ve longed for, the reversal of roles that has always been your goal: a creature that thinks she and her thoughts are evil, a slave to you, whom she perceives as benevolent. You’ve succeeded in making her, good, evil, and you’ve made you, evil, good. She offers her goodness to sacrifice onto your altar of evil, and you consume it. This is your sustenance. Keep her, and you’ll never be hungry.
You cannot call this creature that you have created youth; it is too different. Thus, a new term has been invented.
She is now called the stable dweller.
Be you warned, you who attempt such terrible plans, for the stable dweller has this one advantage over her ancestor: since she is born in the darkness, her pupils have been permanently dilated. Even the smallest amount of light she should be able to detect. But eyes are useless without the brain to interpret their signals. If you’ve effectively stanched her brain, then you’ve stanched the ability for her to perceive such light.
Apply a general method for doing so, for there will only be a select few who will see past it. Do it properly, and your only threat will be the individual who realizes his potential and wishes to seek his vengeance.