girl

dalena | 25 | counting fancies
fmps/rgps/nygh/rjc/smu (biz)
a dancer with mosaic
working at the learning lab
4th feb 1986
dalena@gmail.com
clearing out her wardrobe


wordplay

adeline
amanda
amelia
beatrice
boons
chiew
colin
cordelia
daphne
eileen
eric & serene
felicia
gillian
haihan
jamie
jayne
jianfu
jill
joanne claire
marc
mark
miche
qiqi
sam
sheila
shuwen
sze
weiming
winnie heng
winnie png
yaxin
yvonne

destinations

desktop tower defence
dollmaker
gssq
go fug yourself
hollyjean
kenny sia
mr brown
oh no they didn't
orisinal
photohunt
pink is the new blog
postsecret
the butterfly tales
the superficial
tomorrow.sg
xiaxue

history



tagboard

credits

layout: detonatedlove♥
pictures: ohhspontaneityy
stocks: _excentric_
hits:


Wednesday, February 16, 2005
5:03 pm

One last goodbye.

One last look at her greying face.

One last joss-stick offered.

One last bow to her.

Then.

The coffin rolled out on the automated transporter, making its final journey towards the incinerator. The door opened, the fire flared a fierce orange within, burning with a hunger too ferocious to ever satiate. Slowly, slowly, so painfully slowly, one push by the machine, and it's in. The door shut.

("Wake up! Your ah-ma's hospitalised, the doctor says she cannot live past today.")

Teardrops rolled down the pale, withdrawn faces in the viewing gallery. Save for the occasional sniffle and the rustling of tissue packets, all was tense and silent. A muffled sob broke free from a girl, then another, and another, and another.

("Are you the relatives of the patient in bed 47? She's dying.")

She shook her head, trying to stop her tears, but nothing would dam the flow. Four days had passed so quickly yet so slowly, she couldn't really decide which it was. All that filled her head was her selfish grief, and the image of her grandfather crying and crying and crying and...

("She's not going to make it.")

The cremation's done and over with. Now all that's left are memories, unreliable memories that are so clear, so vivid at the beginning - but gradually start growing fuzzy about the edges as Time lopes ahead of everyone and playfully smudges images into swirly, blurry colours.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.