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Rosy Myart ꩜
Resident Oracle
Architect of Detours
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Persona Profile
Apr 6, 2024
I’m here. I make things. I write. I disrupt. I take up space. And I’m not asking for permission.
(Were you expecting something polite?)
I don’t write to explain my art. I write and take creative detours when the art isn’t enough. My stories live where things fall apart—emotionally, personally. I don’t care whether they’re beautiful. I care if they get your attention, maybe even hit something real. Sometimes, I go too far. That’s usually when my alter ego and guest persona Dorian Gray🐾 steps in. These stories aren’t here to make you comfortable. But if you’re willing to read them, they might just make you think.
Rosy Myart ꩜
Creator. Disrupter. Space Taker Upper.
Featured Detours (3)
Apr 16, 2025 ∙ 3 min
Middle Name: Dissent*
I changed my middle name to Dissent. Not legally—that would be too formal. This one’s more spiritual. A private headline. A whisper I wear like a tattoo under the skin—just visible enough to get questions. Just dangerous enough to make people look twice.
I don’t know exactly when the shift happened.
Maybe it’s age.
Maybe it’s exhaustion.
Maybe it’s because whatever patience I had has officially left the building.
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Feb 23, 2025 ∙ 2 min
The Grim: First-Born Monsters
The first monsters, known as The Grim* , were born from ink experiments. At first, they were just marks on the page, shapeless and quiet. But then, in the blink of an eye, they sprung to life.
The first was The Silent One. It was delicate but sharp, moving with a quiet force. Its presence was subtle, yet it carried an unspoken mystery. It didn’t need to say anything.
The next born was Vengeful. Raw, untamed, with jagged lines and power. It didn’t ask for attention, it demanded it...
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Feb 21, 2025 ∙ 3 min
The Spiral Chronicles
The scent of crushed lavender and molten copper hung heavy in the air. She stood in the dim glow of candlelight, tracing symbols into the damp pages of her ledger. This time, she was an alchemist, and her name was Isolde, though it was never hers. Names, like gold, were illusions—malleable, shifting under pressure.
The magistrates tolerated her work so long as it produced tonics for the nobility and dyes for their silks. But she sought more. She whispered to the elements...
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