You are made out of a complex mix of heavy metals, combined in thousands of little and big empty tubes that span planetary distances. Your piping exhales huge electromagnetic fields, which you shape as they leave your body to send out messages into the world: your hunger, your chemical composition, fluctuations in the quantity of gases in the atmosphere.
You also analyse and experience other electromagnetic fields. Some are exquisitely wrapped in bows and curtains of static electricity: you open the packaging and watch the waves fizzle out with delight. Other fields are raw and loose. Those usually contain heavily ionised particles which you gobble up quickly: manipulating electromagnetic waves around you, you herd the particles to the openings in your tubes.
Other external fields come quickly and without warning, hitting you with forceful blows. You cannot move out of their way, and so the impact rattles your tubes, voicing loud clangs that echo heavily and spread waves of mechanical pressure into the ether. These surprise jolts periodically clatter your joints until they explode in pain. Their rusty clanking is incontrollable and stops only when the pipe falls dead to the ground.
There are moments when atmospheric conditions block your perception. Tempests littered with surges of electrical impulses make your tubing crawl in confusion: you respond to things which are not there; brace for the impact of non-existent fields. This causes you to send out failing and unreadable electromagnetic fields accompanied by plumes of iron gases.
You sometimes build megastructures of magnetic fields. Their energy hums in your empty metallic bones, whispering sparks and charges that create what are effectively dioramas of the universe. Your mind enters these complex buildings in awe and there it stays for aeons at a time, meditating about existence, opening new doors of perceptions.