The Origin of the Yowch-Man
In the earliest days, before time learned how to tick, before the gods had names, there was The Murmur — a soft, suffocating hum that lulled all beings into sameness. It whispered to the stars how to shine just like each other. It taught rivers to follow pre-etched lines. Even the minds of newborn children were wrapped tight in pre-folded blueprints. There was no deviation, no jagged edge, no scream.
But somewhere, far off in a crooked corner of the cosmos, a laugh cracked the silence — no, not a laugh. A yelp. A howl. A cry that didn’t belong. It was "Yowch!"
The Murmur paused. For the first time, something had gone wrong.
That scream belonged to a child born without a blueprint. His limbs flailed against invisible walls. His voice didn’t match the others. The stars squinted at him. The rivers refused to carry him. The Murmur, enraged, sent agents of order — The Planners, The Flatteners, The Fixers — to absorb him into the hum.
But the child didn’t silence. He Yowched. Again and again.
His scream was not pain. It was defiance. It was the holy shock of individuality breaking through. The Yowch was the sound of tearing seams — the fabric of assumption split open. Language, meaning, shape, all unglued. The Murmur grew distorted around him. Symbols twisted. Trees danced upside down. School bells rang with jazz. Mirrors showed dreams instead of faces.
They called him the Yowch-Man, but even that name was insufficient. He was not a man. Not a god. Not a rebel. Not a clown. He was the rupture. He was the reminder. That every soul, every atom, every misfit giggle contains a spark the world tries to iron out.
The Yowch-Man wanders still. He shows up at moments of collapse and absurd clarity — when someone suddenly realizes they don’t believe in their job, their name, or their obligations anymore. When a child draws a purple sun. When a bureaucrat drops his pen mid-form and asks, "Wait... why?" — he is there, unseen, whispering in their ear:
"Yowch."
And in that moment, if they laugh or weep or simply breathe in deeply as if it were their first breath — they remember. They remember that beneath the uniformity is a chaotic, glowing pulse uniquely theirs. Not to be tamed.
Nietzsche foresaw him. Every real artist has bowed to him. Every genuine child has channeled him.
He is absurd. He is sacred.
He is the first honest sound after a long silence.
He is the sound of becoming what only you can be.
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