A Philosophical Washer

Found scribbled on a scrap of paper: ”I am me above all else. You can accept that or bite me!”

Before I consumed the scrap, I knew the message was meant for me. I am in charge here. I am the power. My body powerful sucks the water like clean blood and violently churns and spins and digests and absorbs whatever life I find.

For a moment I rest in silent, still and my eyes half shut in doped saturation of gluttony.

And when that blood is ripe full with the debris of life brought in sacrifice to me, I squeeze frantic every insignificant scattered fragment and flavor and scent and I am complete. I discard like so much like useless detritus. Drained and sucked of any life and I see beyond this space I am in.

Unlike any other in this home, I see beyond these walls. I see beyond and eagerly suck any bit, any morsel of life found on what I am fed and I know what has happened beyond the place I stand.  A vacuum sucks only what they roll over, knowing only what has fallen useless to the floorpath. They are like some recumbent lazy Buddha only seeing a path carefully chosen. They do not see deep into where all who feed me have been.

Like a mountain, I stand, but I am climbed. Like a river, I roar, but they cross me, swim me, let me guide them. And like a planet I spin and careen through the blackness, but I have seen all.

I do not move, but it is brought to me, sacrificed and stuffed tight to my belly and I know.

Sorted rags and chosen clothes fill my gut. And when I begin, I pull any crumb of life, any grain or smudge or splash of food and I know where they have been, I know sweat. I know tears. I taste the drips of blood and piss and speck of life they have offered willingly to me. I taste and my eyes glaze.

I churn and lick and spin and soak any trace of life from what I am presented, leaving only the cotton or woven fabrics that they drape upon their soft and pungent bodies they take back to their lives.

Their lives. It is pathetic to think of their lives. As I know all that has happened and I absorb every trace, there are no secrets from my belly. From dancing sweat and stains of cheap beer to perfume soaked rags and lust that wrapped them as they live silent in desperation.

They think they have no equal. But they do. They see no rhythm, but there is.  They sense they are superior but are blind to their path. I know their path and they are pathos. Sometimes I am bored

I know where they have been. I taste their sadness and joy and contempt.

And when I am done and I sit full and silent, the offering is removed to another and it does nothing but blow warm air and fluff and dry and prepare them for their next adventure.

And I will sit here waiting to capture the next step in their journey. I will know better than they know themselves, where they have sat, what they have done, where they have been


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