Introduction

Introduction: On how to stop the Locomotive.

I have always thought these things could only happen to some kinds of people.

Anonymous

That basically sums up my life, right there, other than being labeled as someone with “melodramatic patheticism” sometimes. As much as I try to convince myself that both of those statements  are wrong, I feel that they’re true. Call it gut instinct,  call it a  hunch, Call it however you want it, but I’ve got another name for it.

Selena.

Let’s start from the beginning, shall we? That’s what everyone tries to do, at least. Trying to put together the mind of the artist and the soul of the work in some pages, to put a block to thoughts in the right way. To put some pastures to them.

(a horse analogy, really?)

(This is getting out of hoof, don’t you think?)

(not really.)

(good for me and for the ten or so readers that will see this, then.)

Let’s stop and think for a moment. What is this story?  Is it a story of loss? Lost and found? A psychological insight on the human mind? Oh, a bit of both you say. I  guess I can roll with that. Let me add “my memories”, “first-hand filed research” and “Journey to the edge of the rabbit hole and beyond, if you’d be so kind. Oh of course I’m the one writing this, but it’s just common courtesy.

Dear reader, if you were lost in these first lines I can assure you that it’s not your fault; what you see here, for once, is not what you will get throughout this still ever growing

(Ever dancing, ever singing)

(Watch out for copyright infringement there, hon.)

work, it’s just the beginning. Didn’t we all start to breathe the same way? Covered in blood that wasn’t ours and screaming to the first hint of light that blinded our eyes? Chaotic. Birth, or creation, is always chaotic. You can try to polish it of course, that’s why you’re cleaned up before  being given to your mother. Who would want to  see such a revolting mess, filled to the brim with-

(You’re right, it’s getting out of hoof )

As birth is a painful and, to the unprepared mind, even disgusting experience, writing is the same. Words spat on paper by a caring hand, but spat nonetheless.

I will be both the doctor, the nurse  and the mother. I will take this bastard forcibly out of my head, even though if he doesn’t want to, hug and kiss him as he tries to claw my eyes out with his tiny fingers and  clean him up for you, dear reader.  He still bites, though. Watch the face.

This introduction isn’t for those who seek a simple read, like most of my little abominations. They tend to kick and scream as you read them, and only stop once you’ve closed the document.

(you might even hear them cry, but don’t be fooled. They love this.)

(So you’re getting less readers.)

(You know well I’ve never searched for online “fame”, dear. I’d have written a shipfic if I-)

(you did.)

(…Touchè.)

( Like you could ever win an argument against me.)

I hope you’re not confused at this moment, but I suppose you are asking to yourself: “ what the hell is this man talking about?” Tell me, reader, do you know what a consciousness inside a consciousness is?

(you just told them.)

(Sel, will you please stop interrupting me for five minutes? Thank you.)

If I have managed to keep at least one reader interested to this point, then I pray that you won’t go away after what I tell you know.

I am talking about Tulpae.

I see at least three ponies laughing, two closing this document and one shaking his head. Good enough. Let us move to a small description of the word itself.

On the subject of Tulpae

Or

The Faq.