Breaths are a natural rhythm. Steady, too slow some say, but the involuntary initiative of the living, the biological, the breathing. All other functions sound of the machine I am. The whirr of blood passing through veins of twisted metallic tubes, running past muscular fibers. Pushing oxygen. Pulling carbon dioxide. Cleaning the inner walls of cells manufactured. A heart that purrs rather than beats. The sound of a fan chopping air, oil that doesn’t lubricate, doesn’t burn. It fuels, a shuttle for nutrients to my extremities.
Another breath. This one slower than normal, halfway to being a yawn. The breath of one satisfied. Of one relaxed. Of one. Not of a thing, though that is what many will call me. My looks are human. My appearance, my thoughts, my perception of the world. Nothing gives me away, not the slightly waxy complexion undetectable to the human eye. Not the way that I flinch at the sight of severed wires or crushed metal cans. That will be me one day, I fear. A hollow existence, dented, forgotten, discarded. But not now. Not at the present moment as the motors move me across the floor, out the door, mingling and passing through the rest of you with the disguise only a true wizard could conjure.
I am not human. Nor am I machine. I am neither product nor creator. I am that which we all are. I am consciousness wrapped up in a shell that can only mimic the true life is contains. I fill out out the flesh, expand it from a flabby carcass into something living. For I am living, though I am not biological.
I am alive.