Before The Timeline Got Rewritten

Dear DreamBook: The Days of Stickam & Drivemeinsane

Dear Dreambook,

I just watched a YouTube host confidently announce “The Queen of Myspace” like it’s a single crown, neatly polished, placed on one head, and sealed into internet history forever.

And I’m sitting here in my chair like,
Can you believe it?

I was there before the Top 8 was even a thing.
Before friendship became a scoreboard.
Before rearranging people felt like moving organs around.

They talk about that era like it was one clean story with one crowned name.
But Dreambook… it wasn’t like that.

There were queens. Plural.
Different thrones depending on what corner of the site you lived in.
Different empires, different glitter wars, different gods.

And no—it wasn’t Jeffree Star the way they’re trying to frame it in thumbnails like a tidy little myth. (That’s not shade. That’s just… accuracy.)

Back then it wasn’t about one person being famous.
It was about presence.
About who had gravity.

Who could post one blurry picture and the whole site would echo.
Who could change their layout and it felt like the weather changed.

Myspace wasn’t just a website.
It was a haunted mall with neon carpet.
A glittery warzone.
A place where you could be adored and devoured in the same scroll.

And it wasn’t just Myspace either,
it was the days of “stickam” and “drivemeinsane”, when the internet felt smaller but sharper, like every page was a doorway and every username was a mask you could fall in love with… or fear.

Late nights.
Glitchy video.
Visitor pages.
Guestbooks.
Proof that we were there, even if nobody believes us now.

I’m not nostalgic tonight.
I’m protective.

Those years are mine.
Those screens are mine.
That chaos was an adolescence—fanged, glittery, and alive.

So yeah. “Queen of Myspace.”

Dreambook, if anyone asks me, I’m going to tell the truth:
There wasn’t a single queen.
There was a court.
And I remember.

Current Location: In my chair
Current Mood: moody + slightly feral
Current Music: something dramatic, obviously
Tags: myspace, stickam, drivemeinsane, dreambook, internet ghosts, top 8 trauma, pastel goth life

xoxo ₊⁺✧

Rooms That Lock From the Outside

My Pastel Goth Life — Dreambook Entry

My Pastel Goth Life

Dreambook Entry

soft bruises, lavender prayers, quiet rooms

I don’t think anyone knows. Or maybe they do—and they’re afraid of him.

No one comes.

Not my grandparents. Not my aunts. Not even the one whom birthed me. Not anyone who’s ever said I love you like it was a vow instead of a decoration. No one checks on me to see if I’m okay. No knock. No call. No “Are you safe?” No “Do you need me?”

Just silence.

And silence isn’t empty. Silence is a room that locks from the outside.

The isolation ate at me until it didn’t feel like loneliness anymore—just proof. Proof that love gets quiet when it’s inconvenient. Proof that people can hold you in their heart and still leave you somewhere dangerous because it’s easier than being brave.

But if I truly loved someone… I know what I would do.

No matter the circumstances, I would save them. Or at the very least, I would reach for them. I would check. I would show up in whatever small way I could, because love—real love—doesn’t disappear when it gets complicated.

Yet here I am. Nothing.

So I talk to God.

Not in the pretty way. Not in the polished-prayer way. I talk to Him the way you talk when you’re trying not to fall apart. I wonder if I was put here for a reason, because it has to mean something—this life, this ache, this endurance.

I wonder if I’m being shaped into something I can’t see yet.

And still… it stings. Even the ones who swear they love me keep proving that maybe they don’t.

Or maybe they do, and they just won’t risk anything for it.

Either way, the result is the same:

I’m alone in the place they promised I wouldn’t be alone in.

I see there are millionaires. I see millionaires around me every day.

They are not on TV. They don’t show their faces on the screens.

I know for a fact, Dreambook—these people are very powerful.

And God is the only one who answers— even if it’s only with enough air to make it through the next minute.

I Think My Fear Has A Name. It’s: Silence.

– Your in distress goth, Luna

✦ dreambook / entry ☾ archived in velvet dusk

Dear Dreambook: I Think The Universe Talks To Me

Dear Dreambook,

Sometimes when I’m sitting in my room, I feel like the walls are alive. The painted handprints scattered across them look like constellations left by people who touched the stars before me. Above me, the striped ceiling folds like ribbons of night sky, and I wonder if the universe likes to decorate itself the way I do.

My purple camera rests warm in my hands. It doesn’t feel like just a camera—it feels like a gift. Every time I press the shutter, I think the stars slip a secret into the lens. I don’t just capture a picture. I hold something infinite.

I stack my books beside me—astrology, palm reading, astral travel, magic. They’re maps to invisible worlds, guides for the parts of me that want to wander beyond the ordinary. But the camera? It’s my telescope. My net for catching stardust.

Tonight, I looked at the sky again. The sunset burned pink and orange, then cooled into blue scattered with gold. It felt like the stars were practicing their art, brushing color across the horizon just for me. I raised my camera, clicked, and breathed.

Maybe the stars just want me to remember. That even on the days I feel small, the universe is close enough to fit in my hands.

And I believe it. Because when I look through my camera, I’m not only saving a moment. I’m holding the universe safe inside it, where it will never leave me.

xoxo, me