Washing Machine.

Do i live or do I survive?

Do i li-

Do i live-

Live or-

Or do I survive?

Do i live or do I survive?

Well, stranger, it depends on the day. The hour. The minute.

Not to think anything of it but it sometimes scares me, the spectrums. The fact that the range even exists. I've never been a huge fan of variety, most of the time. I like to stick to things like a desperate little parasite till we've consumed each other, sucked to the bone and all that's left is... Me and a big old glass of nothing.

Do i live or do I survive?

I do think it's terrifying. In the past few days alone, I've witnessed myself smile till my face and heart went numb. Giggle till I felt the cracks in my own laughter. As if the foundation that used to seem so strong began - within the little moments - to crumble, crumble... Maybe it's my fault.

Of course it is. I'm the master puppeteer of my own face. Smile, sob, sink, repeat.

But I'm okay. Really. You'd expect it to be wonderful. Well... Wonderfuller. And it is. I saved myself the way no one else bothered to. Picked my rotting corpse from a pile of graves where life should have been, said adios to the people dancing across that line of empty promises of money-bleeding salvation - and I chose... Risk. I chose choice after telling myself my entire life that I had none of it at all. What moxy.

So you'd imagine that I'd be happy. You'd imagine that it would all be easier. Maybe that's not you. I'm projecting, I have no idea what you could possibly think of me - oh the things you could think, so many... But see, I like to imagine the silliest things. Like... Some place where peace is. Comfort. Security, safety, joy, everything. And I hop like a needy junkie for whatever I can get my hands on that'll give me that for a while.

The longing for romance, fandoms galore, I desire a place that feels correct. Because I never quite feel correct. Because joy and peace and comfort and safety are fleeting and I hate that they are fleeting because if nothing lasts then who the fuck am I and what am I doing here-

But.

But!

There's always gotta be some nyash to liven things up.

Butt I'm alive. Right? And that's something. I believe it is. And yes. It all fluctuates. It's like being shoved into a washing machine. Wet, dry, toss and tumble, up and down and over and out. A cycle. An endless one. It's kind of fucked up and kind of beautiful that we're all kind of just... Stuck in our own little washing machines.

In these bodies.

At least mine doesn't feel like a corpse anymore, most of the time. And doesn't always smell like one either. That is progress like you couldn't believe - I forgot how to bathe. How to act like a human being and pretend I was just normal enough to play the sane game for the world. I forgot everything except my glubbing. It slipped out my throat, a small bubble on the surface while the clothes kept turning, the water kept sucking me down, down, down...

Do i live or do I survive?

I used to only survive. I used to find breath and oxygen in briefer, sparser moments. A book. A song. A daydream.

But I guess it took switching my machine to a different setting. Different mindset, shift in place, a genuinely me-oriented goal that didn't make me feel like my lungs were collapsing every time I woke up to my own reality. Even though some people were sweet enough to tell me it was ridiculous. And no, not because they cared about what would happen to me but because it "seems wrong" and because "you're supposed to wash it like this" and other controlling societal mediocre bullshi-

Different setting. Same... Machine.

But it works better now, I suppose.

I'm sitting in darkness for right now, listening to the everlasting cycle behind my eyes, the one that truly ends when the machine stops working entirely. And it's fine, save for buzzing and spinning and a little heat from a bit of overuse.

But the water's still flowing. And so am I.

And the cycle of live and survive goes on and on and on with a little bit extra of the former. Who doesn't love more bubbles? All the light, silly, temporal pretty things, I say. That's what humans are, anyhow. Every last one of us. Just trying to find peace within the noise.