How did my cutie mark come to be?
The answer is quite simple really.
But will you stay while tell you why? Can you bear through the entire story or give up half way?
This is not a story like any else.
For this is the story, of Crimson Rose.
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In the beginning, we all tend to choose the paths we take. Rarely do ponies change the path they walk on, changing ones path is nearly impossible for most. Most the time, ponies tend to do it on their own.
What ponies never understand is- all of our paths eventfully connect, everything in some way, is connected. It is an inevitable fact that is so clear yet so blind to the naked eye...
This all began with a dream.
As mundane as it sounds, it all began with a rose, not a regular rose, but a violently crimson one. Dew slowly dripped off its fragrant petals down onto the ground, as though a April shower had pasted only moments ago, light thunder rolled in the distance.
By the way light was hitting it, and the pink glow cast around it, it became apparent the sun was just beginning to rise.
Though grass surrounding the rose was a dark green hinting summer, a snowflake fell on the rose.
At first, nothing happened, the rose stayed still.
A light snow began to fall, and slowly the landscape changed- but not the rose, who stayed- the scenery changed so abruptly, so fast, it was as if time was moving, affecting everything but the rose.
Suddenly, there was no rose at all, only darkness.
It became aware at one time or another I was in the darkness, for I blindly stared walking.
Walking without a goal or check point, walking for unknown amount of time until I saw it.
The rose amidst the darkness, glowing with a eerie blood-red glow.
The glow illuminated stained glass underneath, though only a small portion.
The rose grew brighter as I drew near, slowly showing the image.
A dove flew slightly ahead of a raven, wing tips touching, words were printed underneath.
Where on the path of life, there will always be death-Where on the path of death, life is inevitable.
I found everything around me strange, the glowing rose, the stained glass, the strange words, the darkness around the edges of the stained glass.
What shocked me the most was when I stared at my hooves, they were transparent- the red glow adding minimal coloring.
After accepting my transparency, I advanced toward the rose.
As I walked toward the rose, however, it's petals stared to turn darker, as did the glow, until they were so dark red they nearly looked black, the rose doubled over as I drew near more so, until only the tip of one leaf was a healthy green.
I thought of the words, I looked downward.
The rose was placed were the two birds wings met, I was standing on the dove.
The path of life is a beautiful lie. These words outlined underneath the first quote- siding underneath the dove in white letters versus gray.
I walked onto the raven, then toward the rose.
I expected nothing at first- the plant was already on its death bed.
But as I walked, the rose slowly rose, and slowly returned its healthy color and glow.
The path of death is the disastrous truth. These words outlined beside the doves in black- just as the rose burst into flames.
The dove as the raven burst from out of the stained glass, flying just as they had, the two birds at least twice their normal size flew off into the darkness as soon as the fire burn out.
I stood there for a moment, thinking upon what happened.
Death is on both paths. The coals spelled out, Life, or death- they both end the same- make use of your beautiful illusion. So told the tiny letters.
That was when I woke up.
In the dead of night- it was August.
Yet in front of me was a crimson rose- from the sky fell a snowflake.
