Something's Missing

Looking at this dark brown marinade in front of me, I can't help but feel that something's missing. Did I put enough rock sugar in it? Or did I added too much soy sauce into my mixture? Is the mirin too little?Something's missing, but I don't know what.

An oriental soup spoon rests in the middle of my glass bowl, a little bit of teriyaki sauce flooding its center. It reminds me of the cough syrup Lisa poured down my throat hours ago. Brown, dilute and seemingly unpleasant.

Something's missing.

I'm not talking about my teriyaki sauce anymore. Even in me, my world, something's missing.

Relationships, a gap in them.

The stitches of the finest surgeon is surely flawed as well; the miniscule gaps between the thread and the wound still exists no matter which doctor holds the needle. It feels as if it's perfectly pulled together, but we all know that it's not. Then again, who are we to complain? At least our hearts are still beating.

What was my point in the last paragraph, you ask? Well, I'm not sure if I can explain it either since if I could, I wouldn't have used the surgeon, thread and wound metaphorically. Hah. Don't want to or can't? Honestly? I'm just too tired to explain.

I'm like this I guess, drawing comparisons between things that seem ridiculously impossible to be related to; put together.

I'll try my best to explain, despite being only half awake, with bacon still left to marinade.

The surgeon would suggest a person who is by my side right now. The wound would be my world, the phantom gaps are the missing things I feel but can't seem to grasp. But I can't complain about it, can I? Compensation-- this is as good as it's going to get.

Time to put the bacon in my marinade, wrap the bowl, keep it in the fridge and go to sleep.

In a few hours time, I'll be sitting on this very same chair, preparing my bento for a dreadful day of school.