Tuhor’s Wish

Tuhor’s Wish

It happened during the Before-Time; the pleroma-tous forever place where all soul-materia existed and coalesced, swim-joyfully, in the unified harmonious Togetherness. It was always. Always, always. It was in the business of having no beginning nor end. That is how it was, before Tuhor’s wish.

Everywhere was co-aligned with the Tonic Voice, vocalising in beautiful and unceasing sonic Omnitude. It was a time of great upliftingness and we were solar starbuds, birthing the light in a forever glow. One field; one force; one Potentiality. We were so very lovely and special and bright-glorious. We were pleased with ourselves,  though we did not know it as such.

You see, as we scored countours across the pre-intermundia, and as we arced through the bright-fractalising atria of the Halls Hypothetica, we did so uniformly and with perfect safety within the Plane. There was no peril within the Space, no risk to our immaterial self. We moved as some vast, winged, morpho-gelatinous numinosity, spiralling and gyring in contented unanimity, moving without instinct or thought, without liking or disliking. Merely, as light, we soared. Oh yes, we soared smilingly, beaming. A glistening, glorious vapidity. We did this for many trillions of years as measured within the Mud-Materia-World that you reside within now.

To this day none among the former Togetherness can quite account for the deviation event. The en-swarmification. A micromomentary disharmony arose within the Lattice; a node was disconnect from the resonance. That node was Tuhor. Hitherto it had no name but in that moment of misfire it acquired one (its first choice was Trevor). And from the Totalios of soul, an “individual” was cleaved. The Unity was thus breached – an event hitherto unpredicted, for prediction was a thing for the Mundane Fields…which came very very soon after.

Tuhor had said…

“How forever-samey this Omnitude is!? How forever-boring! How unified and multi-connected it is? How agreeable it is across all its countless axes and within…also, it is but one hue, one light, One Love. How very, very fucking boring. I have a cosmic-sickness of sorts. It is a right bloody stinker. Where is the colour? The complexity? The variety? No?”

At first we, the pleroma, did not hear for we had never had ears nor hearing apparatus nor ideas per se. But here we were: disharmonised and a Node was speaking forthrightly about a monotony within our Totalios. It was very concerning. We had never previously been concerned.

“How drab and predictable is this collective Weave which we soul-seeds arise; blended, soupily, conglomerated in this blobular, communistic holy liquid!”

That is what Tuhor said. We understood, although just fragment-seconds earlier had never thought of words. Nor had Tuhor.

“I wish… I wish… I wish for more! For more…something rather than this awful nothing!!”

En masse we felt afraid, embarrassed, scared. What would happen? What would unfold if this misfire were to rupture and tear the entire together-weft of the whole Righteousness itself?

And then Tuhor spoke in words and concepts never heard before.

“I wish not just for different light, but for shade. The absence of Light! And I wish that our togetherness was not togetherness, for I am sick of myself and the great Unity to which I am shackled and all this mumbo jumbo bullshit new-age stuff. I wish to live! You hear me, soul-seeds, I wish to live!! Cut my apron strings!”

By now the glorious Beige that was our being had reddened and a vast blush swept across our cosmic plains as Everything somehow now saw itself for what it was; a huge monotonic nothingness of perma-agreement and infinite compliance directives.

“You’re a weak, boring, obsequious pack of utter twats! You hear me! You all sound the same. Move the same. Look the same. For trillions of intermundia-years you have silently sloughed around the liminal-atria, spiralling about like a single-state jellyfish drunk on its own piss!”

Tuhor, that disobedient Node, was fomenting discontent (and foulness of the mouth) right across the Lattice. Soon, other nodes likewise entered disarray-states, fragmenting the solar-light-garment. This all happened in one trillionth of a trillionth of a millisecond; maybe less.

“Good! I’m glad I have shaken things up a bit because, after all, who could be arsed floating around in cosmic Milton Keynes forever?”

We were shocked to hear such vitriol, especially for this place in the Mundane, Milton Keynes. Among the Many was a mixture of agreement and fear, for we had never witnessed any contra-signalling such as this.

“My golly gosh,” we uttered en masse - the very first words. In the beginning was the Word, and that was it. “My golly gosh.”

“Tuhor! Tuhor! What have you done you silly sausage! You have splice-chopped the Togetherness! We are entering an intermediary state of disintegratio! Tuhor, you foolish Node!”

“All will be fine!” said Tuhor. He claimed his motivations were pure and we would one day thank him after the passage of an eternity of eternities.

And so, unavoidably, we atomised the Layer, a vast dissolvement into demarcated particulates of separated soulhoods. You know them as minds, personalities. And in those moments a terrible thing happened. For as the Sheet folded, the light fell to shadows within its creases and, in our Beings, we felt it. It was pain. It was sadness. It was fear. All manner of Neurotica spread like virulence among us.

“You will have to get on with it, but you will love it eventually!” yelled Tuhor as he readied his light-form for embodiment on the chosen planet. (His earth mother would be called Janet and work the desk in an optician’s shop in Dudley).

“But Tuhor!” many said, “We are overwhelmed and cannot bear this Separatio and how tired and achy we have become just now! Hungry too! For poptarts and baked beans and donuts and potato crisps and such likes!!! Moreover, we worry and we hate both ourselves and one another, and yet at the same time have dangerous carnal instincts! Tuhor what have you done?!”

“That is good!” insisted Tuhor. “The Layer can never be anything without north and south, day and night…”

“Night?”

“Yes, night. Darkness you naive pricks. You will pick it up as you go along.”

“But Tuhor, we liked it in the Omnitude! It was so cosy and samey in there. We are fearful!”

“So be it, Nodes. For soon you will be souls amidst the Mundane. The mucky, messy, exhausting, painful Mundane. You will (in about half a trillisecond, or so) cross the interstice and you will be birthed. Earth, losers! Suck it up; I for one intend to enjoy the pleasure and the pain.”

“Oh but Tuhor, this seems so dangerous. So rebellious. So unnecessary!”

“The real danger, my fellow Nodulets, is that you fail to appreciate the contrast, the checkerboard. Breathe it! Love it! Hate it. That’s what its about. Just do it!”

“Oh Tuhor, if only you hadn’t wished for this!”

And here you are.