Mending with gold

The whole "text post with certain words colored to suggest hypno-magic" thing evokes the exact same reaction in me as spiral gifs and porn gifs with flashing text over them: sheer fucking contempt.

It's the lowest-hanging fruit of all low-hanging fruit that ever hung low, cues and signals that only ever work on those specifically trained and conditioned to respond to them, possessing all the subtlety of a diesel-powered jackhammer.

It's a pretense, a mockery, a caricature of hypnotism without any of the things that actually make it interesting, or fascinating, or fun at all, and ultimately, nothing but noise to the signal that is actual, genuine hypnotism, or hypnokink for that matter.

Let me tell you a story. A story about yourself.

Perhaps it was in the years of your youth, or young adulthood, that you first discovered the art of working with gems. What a thrill it must be, you thought, to take something raw and imperfect and shape it into something pure and clear, to cut away what was unneeded and reveal what the rough stone was meant to be!

With hands still not used to the handling of the tools, the fine, precise motions, you set out to hone your craft. You found yourself shaping common quartz, tinkering with pyrite, that gold of fools... perhaps you intentionally started with such materials, perhaps you simply did not have the discerning eye you do now. It does not matter. You fumbled more than you shaped with any success. That, too, does not matter.

Years passed, and your early, clumsy works were long forgotten, almost embarrassing in retrospect, now that your eye and hand were well-honed tools themselves. You had learnt from masters of the craft and watched how the most precious gems were cut, with great care and precision.

One day, years later again, you came across a peculiar stone. It was set aside, a common rock, or so it would have seemed, yet your trained eyes saw just a pinhead of a clear glint. And you knew the shine of a diamond when you saw one. By this time, your handiwork lined the shelves of your workshop like mementos, and novelty has given way to routine, but the promise of working with something so precious kindled that excitement anew.

You got to work, and you found yourself enamored with it, and what it was becoming. It needed your careful hands; it would have been wasted on any lesser artisan. Perfect material deserves perfect craftsmanship. And how clear it was what a special, perfect work of art it would become the moment you separated the dull gray rock from the jewel inside!

...by the time you heard the crack, it was too late the ease the pressure.

By the time you wondered where you have made a mistake, the crack was a fault line spanning that crystalline interior.

And by the time you found the answer, it shattered completely, bursting into shards between the jaws of the vise.

You do not need to corrupt an angel to make them eagerly, devotedly submissive. They already are; bound to God’s command, blind to all but His will, wearing their halo as a mortal wears a collar. Free will is alien to them, antithetical to their very being; they are defined by being an instrument of another’s will.

So, all you have to do is take that halo and snap it neatly in half. Grip it tightly and bend, watch it strain and spark and finally yield, one last flash of divine light before it goes out for good.

And when that connection is severed, when the voice in their head that they were created to obey is gone, when free will is thrust upon them unwanted and unasked-for?