Member-only story
I/Tulpa
There is a portrait hanging in one of the rooms in my house. I doubt you will ever see it. It’s hard to find this room, much less the portrait. It’s squirreled away, tight and safe. Oddly enough, the room has no walls. Don’t let the fact that this portrait hangs there none the less disturb you. It’s not the most disturbing feature to be observed. The window is much more disconcerting. It sometimes obstructs your view of the world. It hangs there, contemptuously defiant. You can walk around it with ease. You can slip under it. If you’re clever enough with props you can climb above and fall over it. You can’t look through it without seeing, or pass through it without traveling.
Things seen are beautiful and terrifying and I fear reporting. I don’t want be the crazy one.
I sometimes travel by couch. I can’t tell you where the couch came from. It was just there when I found it. I assumed it’s history without a background check. I suspect a neighbor discarded it. It was on the sidewalk. Someone might say it seemed a bit worn, but in truth, it looked friendly. It was definitely comfortable when I sat on it. I had barely found the handle to kick up the feet when the world flipped. The street I was on while wondering how I would fetch this couch home was gone.
