Tulpa

I feel it bubbling and welling in my soul and in my skin. I feel it like something half human, a machine that turns on blood and oil, meaning to weep and shaking instead. An animal writhing, dying, in the space between lung and liver. I need to make something beautiful. With rabid intensity, I need to make something fundamental, to explain, to tell you, show you And I have no voice, no hands, no tools. I do not know how, I cannot create the way it begs and burns for, I cannot bear stilling long enough to learn, because when I stop moving it hurts. It is an impatient and insatiable creation, a demon of humanity one and the same as us, weapon and weakness, marvelous madness looming and waiting to one day consume us.