Ganjang Gejang

That forehead bulges round as a crock. A full crown means intuition ripening in your head day and night. You are a gejang jar exactly: quiet on the surface while under the lid, soy sauce is seeping into crab flesh, aging for days. But child, jang is only jang when it gets shared. Ferment it alone past its moment and who ever tastes that precious thing?

Those eyes stretch narrow and long: phoenix eyes. Eyes like that mark observation and patience, the sort who says little and measures everything inside. Just like gejang soy sauce: it steeps darkly in silence for days on end, and yet crack one shell and three bowls of rice vanish on the spot. Your inner self is stored away the same, primed to burst all at once, so tell the people beside you to guard their rice bowls.

Look at that mouth, shut tight as an earthen jar lid. A Palace of Speech that firm leaks neither secrets nor money. It is exactly how gejang is made: even after boiling the brine three times over, the lid must stay shut for the flavor to deepen. But you never open your lid at all, and the person next to you cannot tell if you are full of roe or an empty shell. They are dying of suspense, child.