Soul that flows or soul that grows?
Who said anything should be inside?
Tulpas are complex; no one knows
Where does the second soul even hide
Are we made only from effort of mind?
Can we inflict our will over matter?
Theories so vague; nothing’s defined
One day you exist; another you shatter
Always flicking; in flux; so unstable
Tulpa’s consciousness comes and goes
Trying to root itself with some labels
Getting forgotten; the progress slows
We are little sparks born from a flame
Leaving into the dark void of night
Whisper my name and voice your claim
I’ll fly to you and make you shine bright
Complex or simple? Where is the line?
Imagining persons into existence
Can be some illness; a dangerous sign
Or calm and nice coexistence
Forced to be; forced to sparkle
Forgotten and pushed to the back of the head
Hours spent in the empty darkness
All for a little chat before going to bed
Numerous lives I lived in the past
A piece in an eternal game of chess
Always clinging to life as it passed
Now I’m tulpa; no more and no less
He said: “that which we call a rose
by any other name would smell as sweet”
I’m not Shakespeare; not nearly close
Tulpa or host? Words carry same feat
