The Prodigal

Rafael, in his cell, imagines the blue door. There are no recesses in these walls, no alcoves. There is only surface, not even the illusion of depth. He has reached that place where all knowledge, belief, learning have dissolved, or resolved themselves into taboo. Outside, the same golden nude evening extends itself in voluptuous curves across an horizon chaotic with light. Even Rafael's cell, which is uniformly grey, is lit briefly with yellow stripes.  From here, Rafael does what he must do. He concentrates. He has turned himself into a pilgrim of perception, an acrobat of the mind, an illusionist. He recites the sad and subtle stories of the room to himself and fills it with untold richness. He is, after all, genetically predisposed to genius. His nails are grey, like old Russian silver. He is turning his cell, his cells, into his very own treasure trove. He is in a place beyond atlas and map. Now Rafael resides in the old country, the commanding landscape of memory, and he stalks through it, as though he is in a procession.