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.
