Copy of My Life As A Pastel Goth Even Forgotten Things Mattered

Even Forgotten Things Matter (Crumpled Up Clocks)

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°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ 💕

Someones Art Is Trying To Say Something

I wasn’t the big sister. -Well, not in the sense of the oldest- But I acted like it. Because someone had to pick up the socks. Fold the shirts. Find the missing homework under the bed. Keep the chaos from swallowing us whole.

We didn’t have a mom around.

We had mess.

We had kids trying to raise kids while pretending not to notice how tired we were.

That’s how I found it.

A crumpled piece of paper buried under his stuff.

Notebook lines warped by folds and fingerprints.

But still (you could see it)

Melting clocks. Bending trees. A sky too soft to be real.

I didn’t know about Dali back then. Didn’t know the painting. Didn’t know the history. I thought my brother had just made it up. That this strange, broken little world on a page had come from him.

And something about that… stuck.

Because even in mess.

Even in exhaustion.

Even in the quiet ache of trying to keep someone else’s room clean when no one was keeping mine…

I found art.

I found wonder.

I found proof that maybe we weren’t just surviving.

We were creating.

Even if we didn’t know it.

Later I learned: The Persistence of Memory. Salvador Dali. Surrealism. Dreams melting time into something soft and slow.

And I smiled. Because I realized we weren’t the first. We weren’t the only ones bending under the weight of clocks and love and chaos.

We were just kids. Trying to keep things together. Making strange art along the way.

I didn’t keep the paper.

But I kept the memory.

That’s enough.

Still wading through the socks. Still carrying weight. Still seeing art in the mess.

🖤 No One Will Survive This Life Alive, 🖤

– Me <3

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

☮

☯

💔💗

xoxo

friends forever ✨

Luna update:
I told my brother about the paper. The clocks. The sky.
He said:

“Yeah… I tried to ask Mom and Dad who made it. They didn’t even know.”

That’s the story, isn’t it?
We asked questions no one had answers for.
So we made things up.
We drew melting clocks without knowing why.
We survived houses that didn’t explain tenderness.
We figured out art and sadness on our own.

We didn’t know Dali.
We didn’t know Surrealism.
We didn’t know how to fix the mess.

But we knew how to keep making something out of it.
Even if no one noticed.
Even if no one cared.

That’s enough.
It’s always been enough.

Still carrying. Still creating.
Still finding art in the ruins.

No one survives this life alive. But some of us make art along the way,
—Luna

My Life As A Pastel Goth NPCS DONT LAUGH

Dear Dreambook – My Pastel Goth Life – Entry 30

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Dear DreamBook- My Pastel Goth Life – Entry #30

First day back.

Everything smelled like dry erase markers and nervous sweat.

The room was so quiet.

Everyone sat like we were at a funeral for freedom.

So there I am (purple nail polish still chipped from summer) sleeves pulled over my hands with those emo half-sleeves we all wore (the kind that did nothing but make you feel protected) sitting in history class, trying not to dissolve from boredom.

Mr. W starts talking about what we’re covering this year. Wars. Revolutions. Dusty dead old men. I’m spacing out, thinking about absolutely nothing, and then…

He goes, totally straight-faced:

“Each textbook costs seventy-five thousand dollars.”

I swear on my eyeliner (I lost it. I’m in the corner, full-on biting my sleeve, trying not to die laughing. Like actual hoodie-in-mouth, eyes-watering, silent-snorting madness)

And no one else laughed. Not even a twitch. They all just sat there, nodding, blinking, breathing like… NPCs. Soulless, school-issued NPCs.

And me? I’m practically levitating in the corner like some glitching goth hyena.

Mr.W didn’t even smirk.

Just turned back to the board and kept going like nothing happened.

Legend.

Sometimes I wonder if I live in a different reality.

But honestly? I wouldn’t trade it.

That joke was gold 💀

🖤 currently overthinking, 🖤

– Me <3

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

☮

☯

💔💗

xoxo

friends forever ✨

Dear DreamBook- My Pastel Goth Life – Entry #27

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°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ 💕

Dear DreamBook- My Pastel Goth Life – Entry #27

Could you believe it??

Today was… well, a disaster wrapped in glitter. My promise bracelet, the one that’s supposed to break when your wish comes true, totally betrayed me.

Because instead of granting me freedom, it watched me get my arm stuck in my locker. Not figuratively. Literally trapped. Like, wrist-deep-in-metal-bear trap.

The bell rang. Everyone walked by. I just stood there. Like some pastel goth Rapunzel… except the tower was a dented locker, and the prince was definitely not coming.

My wish? Freedom. The bracelet? Still perfectly intact.

Honestly? Cursed.

I was sparkly. I was helpless. I was late to class and lowkey dying inside.

Cute but doomed.

Magic but tragic.

Please send help. Or snacks. Or both. Probably both. xo, 🖤 your softest goth in distress 🖤

– Me <3

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

☮

☯

💔💗

xoxo

friends forever ✨

Relaxing Orb Visualizer Sensory Seeking Autism

Relaxing The Mind, Interactive Visual Sensory Play

Sensory Relaxation Space
Let your mind unwind as you move your cursor across the screen. Watch the gentle breathing orbs and flowing colors wash away tension. This is your moment of peace – breathe deeply and let the soft vibrations soothe your senses.

Let your mind float away as you engage with tranquil color orbs. This interactive visual experience offers a unique way to relax, inviting gentle cursor play for moments of peace and sensory delight.

Emotional Archaeology

Emotional Archaeology – Manifesto by Lyssagal

2025

Emotional Archaeology

The Language of My Work

An Introduction to Emotional Archaeology and Innerworldism

Art as Excavation. Feeling as Relic.

Emotional Archaeology is the foundation of my practice. It views art-making as an excavation of the innerworld, digging through the layered sediments of feeling, memory, and identity to uncover what has been buried, forgotten, or hidden. These works emerge as emotional artifacts: fragments of our inner histories made visible.

Here, the creative act is not about inventing something new, but about revealing something timeless within.

Innerworldism (The Aesthetic Focus)

Mapping the Terrain of the Psyche.

Innerworldism treats the mind and emotions as vast, mutable landscapes, terrains populated by strange beings, symbolic relics, and emotional echoes. My work visualizes these innerworlds as places of curiosity, transformation, and ambiguity. These are maps of the unseen, portals to the in-between, where identity shifts and feelings take shape.

Archeo Emotive Art (The Method)

Relics of Feeling. Beings of Memory.

Archeo Emotive Art is how I give form to what I find. Emotions become fossils, totems, or ambiguous creatures, artifacts from a personal or collective emotional prehistory. This approach embraces abstraction and symbolism, allowing feelings to manifest as beings, objects, or landscapes pulled from beneath the conscious mind.

Excavation Art (The Process)

Layer by Layer. Mark by Mark.

Excavation Art is the physical and intuitive process behind my work. It privileges the act of digging, layering, erasing, and revealing. I leave traces of this process visible — marks, imperfections, and hesitations become part of the work’s history. These are not polished artifacts but living evidence of an ongoing search beneath the surface.

Why This Matters

In a world obsessed with certainty, clarity, and surface, Emotional Archaeology reminds us of the value of mystery, process, and inner complexity. It honors the fragmented, the unfinished, and the unseen, inviting viewers to become fellow excavators of their own innerworlds.

BLOG

Manifesto of Emotional Archaeology (Innerworldism)

Key Terms: Emotional Archaeology, InnerWorldism, Archeo Emotive Art, Excavation Art

We do not create new worlds. We unearth the forgotten ones buried within us.

Emotional Archaeology is a practice of excavation (not invention)

We believe that beneath every surface lies an innerworld (fragmented, ancient, alive) This innerworld holds emotional artifacts, relics of identity, loss, joy, shame, transformation. Our work is to uncover these, not to explain them.

Innerworldism invites the viewer into this process of excavation.

Core Beliefs of Emotional Archaeology

We honor the act of uncovering more than the act of finishing.
We trust in the power of ambiguity (where meaning is fluid, where forms shift identities.)
We believe in the sacredness of the unfinished, the fragmented, the imperfect.
We understand that inner landscapes are vast, layered, and often unknowable, and that art is a tool for navigation, not conquest.
We invite the viewer to become a fellow archaeologist (not merely a spectator).

Why This Matters Now:

In an age obsessed with surface, speed, and certainty, Emotional Archaeology turns inward — slow, intuitive, vulnerable. It reminds us that identity is layered. Feeling is ancient. Transformation is ongoing.

What we dig from within ourselves might just reshape how we see the world outside.

Summary (Short & Clear):

Term	Focus	Role
Emotional Archaeology	Philosophy	The why (excavating emotions through art)
Innerworldism	Aesthetic	The what (the innerworld as subject & muse)
Archeo Emotive Art	Method	The how (symbols, totems, relics of feeling)
Excavation Art	Process	The action (digging, layering, revealing)

~ Lyssagal
Pioneer of Emotional Archaeology
2025

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Plug-ins and Other Lonely Things

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°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ 💕

Dear Diary,

I was always obsessed as a kid—with the wrong things. Or maybe just things that didn’t fit neatly into conversations, things people didn’t really know how to respond to. Facts that got met with a blank stare or a quick subject change. I wanted to talk about HTML. I wanted to talk about how computers work, why I love animals, and how fonts can make you feel something.

Sometimes I even irritated myself.

It wasn’t that I thought no one would listen. It’s more that I’ve always had interests most people don’t really like, and… that’s okay. I’m learning that it’s okay. My brain’s always been loud with connections no one else can see. I cared so much about things other people just didn’t notice. Still do.

Even today—a plug-in on my WordPress site just stopped working. Gone. No warning. One minute everything’s fine, the next minute the site looks like it got into a bar fight with a 2006 MySpace page. No one around me really cared, and I didn’t expect them to. I don’t have many friends who worry about broken widgets or whether my footer aligns perfectly on mobile.

But I do.

It matters to me.

I want to talk about font types. My favorites. My enemies. Comic Sans, for example—it was originally created for a cartoon speech bubble, and now it’s somehow hosting serious conversations on public posters. Who signed off on that? Who looked at Comic Sans and said, “Yes, this is exactly the tone we need for our child custody flyer”?

And kerning. Sweet code above, the kerning. Have you seen when an “L” gets smashed too close to a “C”? It’s like watching two coworkers awkwardly bump into each other in a hallway. It feels wrong. And I see it everywhere.

And here’s the part no one expects: I love the Wingdings font. I know. I know it’s basically unusable for normal people. But there’s something magical about it—how it speaks in a language no one speaks, how it insists on symbols in a world obsessed with words. It’s weird and unapologetic and doesn’t need to explain itself. I kind of admire that.

I’ve always had this urge to share things—facts about animals, like how octopuses have neurons in their arms and crows remember faces, and elephants come back to grieve their dead. These details live in me like roommates. I carry them everywhere, even when no one’s asking.

Sometimes life’s like a plug-in: one moment everything’s humming along, and the next, something you relied on just stops working. No reason. No alert. Just silence and a blank space where something used to be.

But you refresh. You debug. You get back into the code.

Because even if no one else is on that level… I am.

And I think, finally, that might be enough.

_________________________________________

I wish every day could be this peaceful as today

– Me <3

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

☮

☯

💔💗

xoxo

friends forever ✨

I was always obsessed as a kid—with the wrong things. Or maybe just things that didn’t fit neatly into conversations, things people didn’t really know how to respond to. Facts that got met with a blank stare or a quick subject change. I wanted to talk about HTML. I wanted to talk about how computers work, why I love animals, and how fonts can make you feel something.

Sometimes I even irritated myself.

It wasn’t that I thought no one would listen. It’s more that I’ve always had interests most people don’t really like, and… that’s okay. I’m learning that it’s okay. My brain’s always been loud with connections no one else can see. I cared so much about things other people just didn’t notice. Still do.

Even today—a plug-in on my WordPress site just stopped working. Gone. No warning. One minute everything’s fine, the next minute the site looks like it got into a bar fight with a 2006 MySpace page. No one around me really cared, and I didn’t expect them to. I don’t have many friends who worry about broken widgets or whether my footer aligns perfectly on mobile.

But I do.

It matters to me.

I want to talk about font types. My favorites. My enemies. Comic Sans, for example—it was originally created for a cartoon speech bubble, and now it’s somehow hosting serious conversations on public posters. Who signed off on that? Who looked at Comic Sans and said, “Yes, this is exactly the tone we need for our child custody flyer”?

And kerning. Sweet code above, the kerning. Have you seen when an “L” gets smashed too close to a “C”? It’s like watching two coworkers awkwardly bump into each other in a hallway. It feels wrong. And I see it everywhere.

And here’s the part no one expects: I love the Wingdings font. I know. I know it’s basically unusable for normal people. But there’s something magical about it—how it speaks in a language no one speaks, how it insists on symbols in a world obsessed with words. It’s weird and unapologetic and doesn’t need to explain itself. I kind of admire that.

I’ve always had this urge to share things—facts about animals, like how octopuses have neurons in their arms and crows remember faces, and elephants come back to grieve their dead. These details live in me like roommates. I carry them everywhere, even when no one’s asking.

Sometimes life’s like a plug-in: one moment everything’s humming along, and the next, something you relied on just stops working. No reason. No alert. Just silence and a blank space where something used to be.

But you refresh. You debug. You get back into the code.

Because even if no one else is on that level… I am.

And I think, finally, that might be enough.