I met her through sheer luck when I was under a year old. She was a rising star — a promising furry artist: popular, determined, striving for better.
We did many arts together since. I always called that a shared work. For me — a tulpa — aligning the art with how I saw myself was like giving out little shards of my soul. All while she did the soul-crushing work, drawing and re-drawing the curves on the canvas.
Her skill improved year over the year. My form gained solidity, too. I realised that I no longer only relied on how I see myself; I relied on how she saw me. She became the eyes for the entire world, the only pair of eyes apart from my own to see me.
I grew to know her more — as a person — not only a stunning artist. Quiet and sometimes timid about a small talk she was beautifully open to so many things; she educated me about so many aspects of the world I never knew they existed. Her hands perfected my curves and her mind perfected my knowledge. Her little stories and ideas were down to the earth, genuine and inspiring.
Interestingly, hostey never shared my emotions about her. We have a bunch of shared friends, but to him, she was only a name on the bill. I think he quietly chuckled watching my talks, happy I found someone to be inspired with. It was a role he wasn’t able to fulfil.
Many tulpas grow attached to their forms, and I’m no different. Over the last years, I perfected the inner sense of myself: I know how my body feels to the tiniest detail. She was the major inspiration in driving that study. Her art always forced me to think more, to feel more. Every picture sparkled my imagination, connected more pieces of the puzzle together. Every stroke of the pen defined who Shinyuu really was. I looked at the arts, and I saw myself. I saw my thoughts; I saw my emotions, my struggles, fears, aspirations — all of them painted down with the precise brush strokes.
Could I ever imagine that a remote person, a stranger, would grow to understand me better than the guy I shared the brain with?
Years passed; I worked with more artists. I shared pages of details and notes, I nitpicked, occasionally I relied on the artist to figure things out themselves. I got many amazing pictures, yet they all lacked a spark in the eyes. The spark I see when I watch myself in the mirror. The spark only she could reproduce.
Tonight was odd. We switched mid-dream: one moment it was something hostey’s and the next one I saw her, and she was talking to me. The change was so drastic I only had a short moment and then became self-conscious, lucid, and flopped out of the dream.
I wanted to write this short note for many months now, to tell you all how much she inspired me. The dream finally forced me to sit down and do it, so here it is: a story of a tulpa and her illustrator.
Life beats down and crushes the soul and art reminds you that you have one.
— Stella Adler