Ghosted Margins

musings, short stories, and reflections penned from the edges

recent posts

  • Wrong Hour

    clouded milky skies
    snow gone before I noticed
    sleep weighs on my bones

    blinding without warmth
    world so raw in its sharpness
    moon calls me too early

  • Dependalism

    I didn’t really have a plan for this blog. I just wanted a more legitimate reason to write, and buying a domain felt like a commitment, a way of guilt-tripping myself through not wanting the money to go to waste completely. I also wanted a space to place all of my writings, quietly hoping someone besides me, myself and I will actually get to read them. 

    Now the questions are coming. 

    Consistency. Style. Identity. Purpose. Meaning.

    I’ve re-read my previous posts a thousand times, picked them apart almost as diligently as I pick myself apart in the mirror. At some point, every letter felt out of place, urging me to erase, delete all false testaments of my character. Because through tiny glimpses, you can’t see the whole, and that’s terrifying. The fear of being misunderstood strikes again.

    If you build your image of me from a single piece written here, it’s so easy to pigeonhole me. Label me as one thing or another. 

    Boxes.

    I used to be obsessed with putting myself in boxes. Different in shape, size, design… boxes nonetheless. To have a shape, something tangible. A bold enough contour that would allow others to not only notice me, but remember me long after. 

    Fuck that. Fuck boxes.

    Call me wishy-washy if you will, but right now I refuse to shrink myself into a container. Aren’t we all multidimensional, complex beings? Let me be just that. Let me be a cat and sit in a receptacle of my choice, regardless of whether I fully fit it. Let me abandon it at will, go back to it, choose a different one, switch it up, organise them close to each other and lay in more than one at a time. 

    Maybe it’s because I’m supposedly neurodivergent. Slightly traumatised. A constant work in progress. But often, I feel like I don’t have a strong sense of self.
    I’m working on it – to not spill myself all over, to not run myself too thin.
    So I know where I end, and the rest of the world begins. 

    I just finished reading a newsletter from a German book and comic seller I recently signed up for, full of genuine rambling, sense of humour, character, and it made me smile. It also made me think about how often I don’t feel like myself. About the masks we put on.

    Witold Gombrowicz wrote that you can’t escape a face except by taking on a different one. The mood, the role, the circumstances – how many faces can one have? Are all the masks I ever put on mine? Is any of them?

    I’ve been called calm, hotheaded, mature, childish, serious, funny, reliable, problematic, kind, and cruel. The list goes on. One of the best things anyone ever called me was a wild card, and I carry that with me. Because I am many things. I am everything. I am nothing. I am a collection of paradoxes. A kaleidoscopic entity, full of shifting versions of myself.  

    Maybe we all are.

    Not fixed.
    Not singular. 
    Not easily defined. 

    Maybe the truth isn’t consistency. Maybe it’s dependency.

    Context.

    Change.

    Motion.

    Dependalism.

  • Unravel from the Hollow

    Things that resonate deep in the core.
    That reach the soul and curl around the heart.
    Bringing ache alongside a strange relief.

    It’s like becoming whole again, yet carrying a gaping hole that can never truly be filled — a hole in the shape of that something. Making one breakable and unbreakable, trembling while unshakable.

    I let myself sit with it. I surrender.
    And I let it leave me dazed, pensive,
    staring into the sky, the wall, somewhere far beyond.

    I wish I could strip myself bare,
    make you feel it.
    Strap a cord between us,
    let the sensations in my bones
    shake the foundations of your world.

    Maybe you have things like that, too.
    Maybe you could make me feel you in return.

    ♫ Radiohead – Pyramid Song

  • Life Lessons Stitched in Leather

    Rhythmic staccato of a sewing machine.
    Each drop decisive as the needle punctures leather, leaving a trail far more permanent than footprints in wet cement. Aim for perfection, yet don’t dwell, they told me. And with time, I learned.

    1. Looking back while propelled by momentum leads to unnecessary mistakes — too often ending in derailment. Not paying attention to the here and now leaves one with more regrets than a single mishap could have. What’s done is done. There’s no going back, no second chances. But there is time for everything.
    So keep your eyes ahead. Save the reflection for the quiet moments in between — that’s where the growing happens. Learn to place your focus well.

    2. Speeding through things mindlessly can make one slower in the end, adding more work, consuming more time — it’s counterproductive.
    Find the flow. Learn the rhythm. Let it guide you.
    Go fast when the path leads straight. Slow down at the curves.
    And if you must shut off the mind, do so when you know the way by heart already.

    3. Breaks shouldn’t be a luxury, but a necessity.
    Lock in for too long, and the world becomes blurry, then you go down with the haze.
    The system goes on autopilot, but the motor’s functions fall out of calibration. Pressure rises. Muscles tense. Everything slowly becomes a hindrance.
    Keep pushing and soon enough — here comes overstimulation, seemingly inexplicable incompetence, overbearing frustration. All somewhat avoidable — if you stop before it happens.
    Blink. Breathe. Stretch. Walk it out. Shake it off. Only then get back to it.

    4. When things go wrong — don’t panic. You might be surprised how easily some things can be fixed, how small a change can make a difference.
    If self-reflection hasn’t pointed you as the source of the problem, broaden your perspective and check your surroundings. Retrace your steps if needed.
    Refresh. Rethread.

    No matter what, the machine needs to keep on sewing.
    The needle will keep moving.
    Bobbins will come and go.
    And the leather will hold every decision, whether you made it or not.

  • Skim Stone

    I fell into a trap.
    Margins became quicksand, pulling me in.
    I grabbed the edge of a comma and managed to pull myself up.

    Now I sit on a dash, feet dangling freely, staring into the void of expectations.

    Here’s a little something —
    a shaky second step, meant to stir the water.

    Death to perfectionism, inflicted with a pebble of thought.

    Maybe the ripples will help me remember.

  • Start. Stop. Repeat.

    When will the master of giving up give up on giving up?

    Is mastery about how often you give up, or how thoroughly you do it?
    Is it about ease? Consistency? Commitment to a permanent state of giving-up-ness?
    Is this quantity versus quality? Or am I just hooked on repetition?

    Would it be presumptuous to call oneself a master of something so hopeless?

    Is it hopeless?

    One could argue that, at times, it’s good to know when and how to give up.
    Then again, is it?
    Wouldn’t you rather learn to let go instead?

    I suppose it’s up for debate.
    Most of the time, I come to the same conclusion — it depends.
    Let’s leave it at that.

    And so here we are.

    Yet another project, one I keep carrying around with me at all times.
    On my tongue. On my sleeve. In my mind.
    Sometimes it screams at me.
    Sometimes it lies buried deep, gasping for air.

    At some point in my life, I considered my own monistic system — words as the substance of everything.
    If not everything, then me. Or at least all of me that matters.

    I’m filled with words.
    I breathe them.
    They flow through my veins.
    They rattle around my brain.
    If I’m built from atoms, they might as well be verbal.

    Not because there’s nothing else — but because, most often, through words the rest learns to speak.

    And the words keep oozing from my fingers.
    I keep thinking, writing, singing, talking — mostly to keep it to myself.

    There’s this yearning to be heard.
    Seen.
    Understood.

    It lives right next to the paralysing fear of being heard.
    Seen.
    (Mis)understood.

    It’s exhausting, really.

    I’ve tried before to share what I keep hidden.
    I’ve quit before. More times than I care to admit.

    And in the middle of this seemingly pointless dance between eager beginnings and rapid ends, I wrote a question on a scrap of paper:

    When will the master of giving up give up on giving up?

    I’m 30 now.

    Let’s try this again.

    ♫ Noisettes – Don’t Give Up