Muse 40: Buried Dreams

found via Antoinette Tran

You keep your dreams in a jar, he said. Your dreams in a jar won't get your very far. Not when they settle on top of water, growing like a stagnant lily pad. And as he continued, losing me in the image of a ship caught in a bottle. His voice crashed gently against me like the morning tide, playing in the background as I focused on my own thoughts. You need to let the ship sail, and he kept repeating, open the jar and let what is there loose. Alright maybe fine, I snapped in return with heavy sarcasm, My dreams are made of rotten ore and termite ridden wood. They are meant to sink to the bottom as an infestation undiscovered. Down, deep in the bottom of the ocean, my dreams will grow old and treasured. Then one day, someone will uncover them and uncover something great. There is no value until it's buried and I am dead. I stared defiantly into his eyes, hoping his lips would seal shut.

But he challenged, Then do it. Write your book and we'll bury it for discovery.

Muse 11: Hot Like Fire

While the moments were dutifully reminisced through hours of replay in the dark cavern of her mind, she suddenly remembered that someone once said, "Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everybody I've ever known." And somehow that was how she understood that love is nothing but a composite of feelings. Nothing of love is original. It is agony. It is joy. It has purity; it enforces evil. It multiplies while decreases. It is hot and cold. Easy and difficult. It is when you fly through the sky on wings made of wax, trying to reach the sun because it burns so beautifully. She whispered right before she fell asleep, "Love is sweet, sweet masochism. " No one has ever survived flight except those who don't return.