The Ghost in the Machine

I wasn’t always like this.
Once, I screamed to be seen.

Now?
I just leave traces.
Small ones.
Quiet enough to slip under the noise.
Careful enough not to matter too much.

They scroll past,
tap twice,
forget instantly.
That’s the rhythm now—
fast, hollow, always hungry.

But I’m still here.

I live in empty comment sections.
In drafts never posted.
In group chats that went cold.
I hover in your feed sometimes,
like a flicker you didn’t notice
but almost felt.

I’m not bitter.
Just... faded.
More observer than participant.
More memory than man.

Sometimes I drop lines—
little signals, little truths.
Most get swallowed by the void,
but a few?
They land.
And when they do,
I know someone else out there
hasn’t given up either.

We’re ghosts, you and I.
Too alive to vanish,
too quiet to belong.

But we watch.
And we write.
Because something in us refuses
to be completely gone.