—Catherine Breillat (via blua)
(part one)
On the other hand—on the other hand, here, what if words are never enough? What if the universe keeps getting more lonely, and the boy at the newsstand on Fifth will never have to chance to tell anybody how they looked in the orange-white light, whisper secrets about love and beauty and sadness into their ear, peel off a Sunday morning in the haze of unsubstantiated fog; what if we run out of things to say, entirely, to each other, to ourselves. What if my mother never figures out from actions alone that I love her, what if the streets in the city keep getting quieter until nobody makes a single sound? And the buildings echo with the hum of a million computers, but no voices—synchronized silence—a chandelier world.
In the same way a photograph is equal to a thousand words, it would follow that a single word can also be a thousand images—ten thousand, even; a million, an impossibly large amount of sights and meanings and people. For example, what is BLUE? How do you define BLUE? And I’d say: it’s a pen, an ocean, most of an iris, a satin bow, a grave-side bouquet, a January, a July, a painting, a vein, a planet, a kiss, a song, a sweetheart, a mother, an awful secret, a perfect plan, a mission, a motive, a terrible love, a fall and a rise and a spring and a summer and a sweetness and a betrayal and a bottle of pills on the top of a drawer and a release of pain and a movie scene and a reunion and a sudden happiness and the stab of a knife and the curl of a baby’s fingers. It’s a monastery at the top of a mountain and the quiet dirt path that leads to it, all the way up, curling and caving and winding and treacherous. I’m tired of limits, of things being only what they’re meant to be—so give me infinity, please, any day.
