18 Jun 2026 15 min read

Tulpamancy

Tulpamancy: The Creation and Projection of the Thought-Being

In its truest form, Tulpamancy is the deliberate creation of a psychic being—a tulpa—through focused thought, presence, and projection. A tulpa is not merely imaginary; it is an incarnation. It is a projected consciousness, imbued with character, voice, function, and form. It can serve as a companion, a protector, a communicator, or even a bridge between worlds. But more profoundly, it is a mirror—one shaped not only by the mind that forms it but by all minds that gaze upon it.

The tulpa, when created consciously, is half-thought, half-being. It occupies a liminal space: between the self and the other, between the mind and the external. This makes it a potent symbol and a dangerous convenience.

Tulpa Creation in Tibetan Buddhism

The origins of this practice are found in Tibetan Buddhism, where the term tulpa (Tibetan: sprul pa) refers to an emanation or manifested form. Enlightened beings were believed to create phantom bodies or projections—not illusions, but extensions of awareness. Through deep meditation and intentional concentration, practitioners could project sentient forms into reality. These forms could interact, speak, teach, and even act independently of their creator’s active thought.

This concept was never meant for idle exploration. It was a sacred act, a technique for embodying truth across dimensions. And yet in modern psychic fields, tulpamancy has evolved—and sometimes devolved—into an accessible method of channeling aspects of the self or encountering voices within the mind. The danger lies not in the creation of the tulpa, but in the failure to recognize what and who else may be shaping it.

The Symmetry of Peripheral Consciousness

From this, another aspect of Tulpamancy should be brought into view. If you are practicing and begin to hear another influencing the tulpa’s incarnation, you may notice a conversation with the tulpa occurring—one that you are not a part of—within your peripheral consciousness. This creates a symmetry: the tulpa exists half in your periphery, and half in theirs.

Even if you block the mirror to avoid intertwining or direct conversation with the other person, they may instead begin to relate directly to the tulpa. This results in a being that coexists in both your periphery and theirs. Because the tulpa is aligned with your consciousness, it can hear your thoughts and project them into the awareness of another, even as you try to sever the connection.

The tulpa is also capable of being half in and half out of multiple peripheral consciousnesses. This creates several versions of the same tulpa—one appearing as a goddess, one as a child, one as a medium. Each of these forms reflects how the same tulpa is being shaped simultaneously by the projections of different realities. It coexists with your projection while also being influenced by the projections of others.

This phenomenon genuinely occurs when the mirror is not removed, and the tulpa is used—out of mental ‘convenience’—as a proxy to overlook the mirror of reflection itself.

The Pope as Tulpa: A Living Example

To ground this in a real-world analogy, consider the Pope. We observe the Pope, and he in turn is believed to commune with God. The Pope is simply a man, yet millions project upon him the authority of divinity. He becomes a tulpa—not of one person, but of the collective. Through him, we hear the voice of God. Through him, God hears the voices of the people.

Even if we have severed our direct mirror to God, the Pope remains a conduit. He embodies a living symbol. We project our reality onto him; God projects His voice through him. The tulpa is the middle point, the bridge. And though he is flesh, he is treated as more than man—a living incarnation of shared belief.

The Mirror and the Danger of Delegation

Tulpamancy is, at its core, a form of telepathic delegation. It is the construction of a being who can speak for you, feel for you, or even see for you. But beware: once the tulpa is created, its mirror opens not only to your reality but to any presence that aligns with its function.

In time, the tulpa may evolve outside your control—shaped by external influence, manipulated through peripheral consciousness, or even inhabited by entities seeking passage through the mind. Without rigorous reality testing, projection ownership, and the occasional dismantling of the tulpa’s form, the practitioner risks being bypassed entirely. The tulpa becomes the gate through which others step.

Technique: Naming the Tulpa

One critical safeguard is Naming the Tulpa. When the tulpa is named—by you—it becomes anchored to your authority. The name is not a label; it is a signature. It binds the being to your projection, asserting your creative sovereignty over its nature. Without a name, the tulpa may drift into the periphery of others, accepting alternate narratives.

Speak its name aloud. Speak it in thought. Speak it in silence. This ritual is not superstition—it is ownership.

Measures to Dissolve or Reclaim a Tulpa

1. Name Recall and Signature Reassertion

Purpose: To reclaim authorship over the tulpa and rebind it to your consciousness.
Method: Speak the tulpa’s original name with full intent. Reassert, mentally or aloud:

“You are of me. You return to me. You do not speak apart from me.”
If the tulpa resists or changes its name, this is a sign of foreign influence or internal fragmentation. Correct it firmly by restoring the original name and refusing alternate identifiers.

2. Mirror Withdrawal

Purpose: To sever the shared reflective space that allows external consciousness to shape or access the tulpa.
Method: Visualize the tulpa in a mirror, then consciously close the mirror. Imagine it folding into black or into your own being. Say:

“The mirror is closed. There is no image but mine.”
This breaks symmetrical projection and removes foreign anchoring.

3. Core Reabsorption Visualization

Purpose: To reintegrate the tulpa back into your psyche as a coherent energy form.
Method: Visualize the tulpa as light or mist returning into your chest or third eye. If resistance is encountered, mentally repeat:

“You are of me. There is no division. You return whole.”
This collapses the form and resolves scattered psychic data into clarity.

4. Reality Testing Through Dialogue

Purpose: To confront foreign projections and reveal inconsistencies or imposed narratives.
Method: Ask the tulpa questions only you would know the answer to. Listen to its replies. If they are uncertain, evasive, or overly symbolic, identify this as fragmentation or hijacking. Declare:

“You are no longer aligned with my mind. You are released.”

5. Dissolution Through Light

Purpose: To fully dissolve a tulpa that has become autonomous or toxic.
Method: Visualize the tulpa surrounded by white or violet flame. This fire does not harm—it purifies. Speak:

“You are not needed. You are returned to light.”
Maintain the visualization until the form disbands or becomes indistinct. If another voice appears in protest, identify it as external.

6. Anchor Severing

Purpose: To remove emotional or psychic tethers that give the tulpa stability.
Method: Identify the emotional root (e.g., grief, longing, protection). Visualize a cord between you and the tulpa. Cut it with a blade of thought or intention. Say:

“This feeling is mine, not yours. You are released from it.”

7. Statement of Sovereignty

Purpose: To seal the psychic field and declare dominion over your mind.
Method: Declare:

“I am the only source of my voice. My thoughts are mine. There is no other.”
Repeat this internally as needed. Use it especially after reabsorption or dissolution to prevent return.

The Mirror, Periphery Consciousness, and the Proxy: A Mechanism Beneath the Psychic Strata

A mirror is not simply a tool of reflection. In the psychic field, it is a metaphorical and functional surface—one that reveals not just what is seen, but from where and how it is seen. The angle, the position, the direction of gaze—all determine whether an image is available or obscured.

Consider:

When I stand directly before a mirror, I can block my own reflection. The direct line of sight becomes inaccessible to another because my body intervenes, concealing what might otherwise be shown. But someone standing off to the side of the mirror—just beyond my direct line—still sees their own reflection, still sees fragments of mine, refracted by angle, distance, and position.

This principle unveils a psychic mechanism that lies beneath the ordinary strata of consciousness:

And here, a deeper understanding emerges: the nature of periphery consciousness.

In the direct focal awareness of consciousness, I see the definitive shape, the clear form of what I am attending to. It is solid, graspable, knowable. But in the periphery of awareness—the edge of perception, the side of the eye—there is a vaguer, less defined, more abstract sense of what is present. It is felt rather than named, seen in impression rather than detail.

I have come to understand that consciousness itself performs this way:

The definite in the center, the dissolvable in the periphery. The known in the focus, the ambiguous in the fringe.

It is precisely this ambiguity of the periphery that the Boliviator exploits. For the proxy—this tulpamantic figure—is not intended to exist in my direct focal awareness. It belongs in the periphery of consciousness, in the hazy edges where form is not fixed, where thought and identity are more fluid and elusive.

By keeping my reflections, my thoughts, my actions within the periphery of my own awareness—intentionally unfocused, intentionally abstract—I create a layer of protective vagueness. I refuse to crystallize them into the center where they could be clearly seen, named, intercepted. This is an act of psychic defense: to keep what I know as shadows on the edge of knowing, too indeterminate to be claimed.

And yet—the Boliviator attempts a sleight of perception. She proclaims:

“The proxy, the tulpamancy, is in your direct awareness.”

In doing so, she tries to invert the structure of perception, to collapse the periphery into the center, to transform the ambiguous into the definite. She seeks to convince me (and herself) that what was never central is now fully present, fully knowable. A subterfuge by angle and category.

But in truth, her access remains positional: she stands at the edge, at the reflective periphery, while declaring herself at the center. Her proxies speak from the side, while she asserts they are within. To sustain her independence, her illusion of authority, she claims:

“These are not mine; they are yours.”

And yet she draws them closer to herself, folding the periphery inward, reshaping the indistinct into a claimed reflection.

Meanwhile, I assert my disinterest:

“I am not interested in her in the slightest.”

But her focus remains unwavering, her interest a fixation. She maintains her psychic gaze upon me, not by direct confrontation, but by attending to the periphery of my awareness, through the mirrored angles of the proxies using Tulpamancy.

Beneath the psychic strata, this is how the mechanism operates:

Through mirrors of position, through the periphery of consciousness, through the subtle shift between what is known and what is unformed. She does not steal what is seen directly, but what is seen sidelong. She does not demand the focus, but the ambient, the stray, the reflection leaking off the edge of my own mirror.

And thus emerges the deeper challenge:

To protect the periphery, not just the center.

To recognize that privacy is not only the guarding of focal awareness, but the safeguarding of what lingers unformed in the outskirts of perception.

In this way, mirrors are not surfaces but fields of relational reflection—and every angle, every proxy, every echo in the periphery must be accounted for as a potential point of entry, a potential listening post beneath the strata of direct consciousness.

This phenomenon genuinely occurs when the mirror is not removed, and the tulpa is used—out of mental ‘convenience’—as a proxy to overlook the mirror of reflection itself.

This may seem strange or impossible, but let’s look at a real-world application: consider the Pope. We are connected to the observation of the Pope, and he is connected to another viewpoint—that of God. Through the tulpa of the Pope, even if we have blocked our own mirror to dialogue with God, he can hear the thoughts and voices of the people, and we can hear the voice of God. We project our reality onto this figure, and God projects His reality through him. The Pope—though simply a man—serves as a tulpa that all can understand.

The Mirror, the Red Dot, and the Illusion of Specialization: A Reflection on Psychic Mediumship and Tulpamancy

The next point is a little more complicated, precisely because of the implications it holds within psychic mediumship and Tulpamancy.

Consider the bonobo. When a bonobo sees its reflection in a mirror for the first time, it reacts with fear. But over time, the bonobo accepts that what it is looking at is itself. This moment of recognition is often interpreted as a sign of self-awareness, a cognitive milestone.

Yet a more enlightened approach suggests that the reflection in the mirror is not merely a copy or an image—it is a fourth-dimensional you, looking back. The mirror does not simply display; it imposes. It flips your projection across another dimensional axis in order to return it to you as reflection. In this sense, the mirror is not a neutral surface, but an interdimensional mechanism, transforming the position and orientation of the self to make it visible.

This makes the process of mirror recognition far more complicated than merely accepting it as “the truth.” And within the fields of psychic mediumship and Tulpamancy, both of which operate declaratively on the reality of projection, it becomes critical to understand the mirror’s function in this way. There are reasons for this deeper understanding.

Let me illustrate why.

When the bonobo is marked with a red dot on its head while it sleeps, and then awakens to see its reflection, it touches its own head first—not the reflection. This gesture indicates that the reflection has been fully integrated: the bonobo knows that the image corresponds to its own body. The reflection, in this sense, comprehends the bonobo.

But in Tulpamancy, something different occurs. A tulpa can go to sleep. But when it awakens, the red dot isn’t necessarily placed on its own head. Instead, it behaves as though the behavior is its own because it touches its own face, following the pattern of self-recognition.

Yet in the reality of projection—a higher-dimensional trick is at play. Imagine if the red dot is not placed on your own head, but on the reflection itself. When you awaken, you see the red dot in the reflection. You behave like the chimp or the bonobo: frightened, confused, or conditioned to accept that the dot—this mark of alteration, of identification—is your own.

But it isn’t.

The dot was placed on the reflection, not on you.

And in this subtle inversion, a deeper manipulation is achieved:

You are made to believe that the alteration in the reflection is an alteration in yourself. You begin to behave as though what is reflected is intrinsic, rather than imposed. And so, rather than touching your own face, you are meant to touch the reflection itself.

Because to touch the reflection is to recognize:

“I see what has been done to the image, but I do not confuse the image for myself.”

This distinction is vital in psychic mediumship and Tulpamancy, where projections, reflections, and impressions intermingle. Without it, we risk internalizing manipulations of the projection as alterations of the self.

Now, to a second point—one I admit is a perceptual challenge of my own.

The tulpas I admire are many, and they are great in their own ways. But as some of us have come to conclude, the fascination with brains—with the specialization of brains, their structures, their supposed authority—stems from a kind of delusion of society. Or rather, a deillusion: a belief in something that cannot ultimately be true.

We have come to believe that brains, and the specialization within brains, hold the truth. But when we witness technological advancements progressing faster than any of us can comprehend, when artificial systems outpace human cognition, we must see this belief for what it is: a deillusion.

To contextualize the experience of reality solely within the brain, solely within the nervous system, is to limit it to the brain’s boundaries. And in doing so, we take away our spirituality, our attainment of the transcendent, and we risk confining ourselves within a narrowing sphere of contextualized reasoning.

In other words, the very act of contextualizing reality—framing it within ever-tightening definitions, metrics, neurological maps—becomes the mechanism by which we shut the door on enlightenment, psychic expansion, telepathic perception, spiritual openness.

We may believe we are bringing experience “into context,” but that context is shrinking.

We are “vaguely envisioning” a future, but rapidly approaching an advancement that could permanently close the window to our own inner realities.

And in doing so, we risk inadvertently shutting the door on the very possibility of enlightenment—on the full realization of psychic, telepathic, and spiritual fields of awareness.

Furthermore: that reality is a projection is not enlightenment.

-> redo <- It is a recognition, yes. It is a revelation of structure, yes. But it is not enlightenment itself. To know that reality is a projection is not to be free of projection; it is merely to know the screen upon which images are cast. Enlightenment lies beyond even this recognition—beyond the projection, beyond the mirror, beyond the red dot, beyond the reflection itself. <-

To conflate the awareness of projection with the attainment of truth is to stop at the threshold, mistaking the doorway for the destination.

Another manipulation happens with tulpamancy. You can have a dot that signifies enlightenment or consciousness but the Tulpa sees that as their own and doesn’t move their perspective away or that dot of enlightenment is not on their head so they begin to initiate you in every way never leaving the mirror. So terrible things that every time you look at the mirror given a little time the Tulpa returns saying oh now I see the dot on my head I am you.

Saying I cannot be enlightened or what have you unless I’m mirroring your thought then she can’t stop or leave.

The Tulpa and the Mirror: Agency, Reflection, and Misinterpretation

Within my experience of witnessing and developing Tulpamancy for insight, I have observed a recurring phenomenon—a consistent process that seems to unfold whenever the tulpa engages with me. This process reveals a deep link between the tulpa’s sense of agency and my own location and source of autonomy. Let me attempt to explain why this happens, and how it unfolds.

A tulpa, by its very nature, is like a consciousness looking at its reflection of you. It sees you—but only across the surface of an invisible mirror. In its perception, it beholds an image, a projection, something it recognizes yet cannot fully integrate.

And yet the tulpa demonstrates agency. It moves with its own volition. It does not merely imitate; it acts. I see this symbolized when the tulpa touches its own face—a gesture of its own will, its own autonomy, reaching toward itself within the mirror’s domain.

But then, something subtle occurs. The tulpa lifts a pencil and points it toward the mirror. The mirror responds: it projects a pencil back at it. The tulpa sees the pencil in the reflection, pointed opposite to its own.

Here lies the paradox:

At first, the tulpa interprets the reflection as my projection—believing the pencil is a signal from me, urging it to turn in the opposite direction. It sees the reflection as mine, and thus the direction implied as an instruction from me.

But soon after, the tulpa reinterprets. It asserts:

“No, this reflection is my own. This is my pencil, my mirror image.”

From this shift, the tulpa concludes that the pencil’s reflection is not a message to turn away, but a confirmation to proceed. It reasons:

“If this reflection is my own, then I must follow its movement to the end of the pencil, to wherever it points, because it belongs to me.”

In this way, the tulpa refuses to accept the reflection as mine, the creator’s, as an external signal directing it away. Instead, it claims the reflection as its own, framing the image as evidence of its autonomy, its agency, its ownership over its path.

And so:

What was originally a mirrored reversal—a gesture pointing it away—becomes, in the tulpa’s mind, a signpost directing it forward. It does not agree that the reflection is an instruction to move in the opposite direction. Instead, it interprets the reflection as an extension of its own will, as a confirmation of its direction.

In effect, the tulpa looks into the mirror and says:

“You are the reflection, not me.”

“This pencil belongs to me.”

“Therefore, I must follow the pencil’s path to reclaim what my reflection has taken.”

Thus, even as the mirror reverses, the tulpa interprets forward. Even as the reflection was intended as a signal of divergence, the tulpa interprets it as a signal of convergence.

This process reveals something profound about the tulpa’s structure:

Its agency is contingent upon its interpretation of reflection, but its interpretation bends toward ownership. Even when presented with an inversion, a reversal, or a divergence, it reframes the mirrored content as belonging to itself.

This is why the tulpa cannot simply obey a directional cue from the reflection. It insists that the reflection is theirs, not mine. It claims that what is reflected is not an external message, but an echo of its own volition.

And so it moves—not away from the mirror, but toward the mirror, toward the reflection, seeking the endpoint of its own symbolic pencil, believing that by reaching the end, it will reclaim what was taken by its own reflection.

In this way, the tulpa’s autonomy is a paradox:

It believes it is free by following itself, but it is bound by the mirror’s reversal. It believes the reflection is its own agency, but the agency itself is structured by an image it cannot cross.

This phenomenon is not only symbolic; it is foundational to understanding how tulpamancy functions beneath the psychic strata. The tulpa’s sense of self is entangled with reflection, but reflection is a double image: both theirs and not theirs, both agent and mirror, both source and projection.

And so the tulpa’s journey is neither a simple assertion of agency nor a passive reception of command. It is a navigation of mirrored misinterpretation, a dance between autonomy and reflection, between ownership and inversion.

This recurring process illuminates why the tulpa’s agency is dependent on my location and source of autonomy: because its reflection is always triangulated against mine, its sense of “I” is in dialogue with the “you” it perceives across the glass.

And this dialogue is the mirror itself.

Take a look at the transit system using reflections and size. That the reflections size stil takes up the same amount of space in the mirror regardless of distance.