three colors. apricot

I had a wonderful dream. In it, impossibly beautiful people were telling their stories, and somehow all these stories were about me. Then it turned out that we were all in a theater hall. The performance kept not starting, and I looked around and realized that the actors were in the audience, together with the spectators, and while waiting for the show, everyone present was talking to each other as if they'd known one another for years, hadn't seen each other for just as many years, and had finally met again. The voices sounded simultaneously, but it was polyphony — each voice could be heard individually, and yet together they were harmonious. Then silence fell, and out of that silence a performance emerged, its action somehow reminiscent of the films of a famous Polish director whose name I just couldn't recall. What was happening on stage was hard to put into words, because it consisted mostly of fragile, crystalline silence and light, a shimmering, shifting range of color. It was very beautiful: a rich blue, growing paler, turned into a cold, almost transparent white, which, darkening, became anxious, threatening, blood red, and then, like a sun that at the last moment changed its mind about setting and rose instead, it blossomed into a blindingly bright, warm apricot.