We're just Another soul, passing through this journey
As I slowly walked down the aisle of gloomy ashes
I chanced upon a couple who died during the war
One with a photo, the other without
Even if there were flowers, beyond a name, a date and a verse, that was all left of that lady
I wondered, what might she have been like, what might have happened to her?
Perhaps taken from her family, and her belongings burnt, before she became a memory. She must have been lost, somewhere, and yet now she's almost lost forever from this world.
How fleeting life is.
I looked across the aisle, and saw many others
Some with a name to be remembered.
A certain flower, square, not oval, a medal for a marathon, a durian magnet, all little things to remember them by, to symbolise the life they had.
I put the little chilli crab ornament down at my mum's place.
Realising how her neighbour had taken her flower spot to form an orchid arch.
And I felt sad, that I couldn't even keep that little spot for my mum. Yet, even as I wanted to throw the second orchid away, break it, destroy it, I knew that's what's special about my mum's life, that she wouldn't want me to do it.
Even as much as what I wanted to do was out of love for her, it wasn't her.
Yet, even as I walk across the aisle, she's not the only one like that. From the corner of my eye, I spot another photo with a smile that could light up a room, yet sparsely decorated with flower spots taken by their neighbours.
Life is such an irony.
Even in the way one walks, everyone walks different.
For all that I was taught by my mum, I wonder if it's truly the way. After all, many people teach me differently.
And where I was today was a little bit like the hall of fame.
Like when you walk into the pyramids of kings and find one that you resonate with.
There are thousands of people just here, and if you walked along the graves, you find tens of thousands more, and in those who believed in the sea, millions, and of those forgotten even more.
One day, that will be me.
I will leave the earth just like so many of them.
Burnt into ashes, buried or scattered.
A memory in some, a distasteful taste in another, and completely lost in the rest of them. Among mortals, I am merely just Another mortal.
I looked at the crosses and how the differed.
Some chose golden crosses, some wooden and some just black.
I recalled how I chose black.
I saw a little bible stuck on another one.
It was tattered and torn, an embellishment of that life.
I thought about the choices we made, or those made for us.
Our lives are just like a fleeting drop of rain.
Or a falling flake of snow.
We form like little particles in the air with much hope.
As we fall through the journey of life, each of us take a certain character and form.
Some of us, we mesh with others, or lucky to fall in a spot where we don't get washed away
But at the end, we are brought back together.
And some believe we are recycled back into life just like raindrops from the ocean
And some believe this water washes away
And yet some believe the water can do great good.
And the water can make life again.
And all in all.
In the midst of what we do and what we have done.
In the midst of our journey from it's start to end.
It's OK to be different
It's OK to be the same
We're just Another soul.
But a soul nontheless.
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