Talking To Myselves. Part 1.

Something I wrote kinda spontaneously. I was trying to visualise what goes on in my head.

This time, it was a huge circular room, atop of a tower of concrete, glass and steel.
High ceiling, full length windows, and way more floor space than necessary. There stood a single, circular, metal table, dead center, underneath a flamboyant, yet lifeless metal chandelier, surrounded, as always, with exactly as many chairs as was needed; Solid steel, cold and expressionless.

The room was lined with elaborate, abstract "modern art" that somehow brought less personality to this otherwise empty room with their logical shapes and patterns, all the same shades of grey as the room and the sky outside.

Wind and rain battered the glass walls, and dark, thick, swirling clouds full of the flashes of lightning, seemed to press against the glass, smothering it, concealing it from the outside world.
That's if, anything else even existed in this world, past the glass and the clouds.

You see, the room wasn't important.
It was different every time. Sometimes it wasn't even a room.
It has been bedrooms and beaches. Mountain summits at the Throat of the World and forgotten caves that housed unimaginable creatures.
But there was always a round table. And there was always just as many chairs as necessary.
You see, the table was the meeting place, it's surrounding decor crafted from their thoughts.
His thoughts.
My thoughts.

The different Mes gathered here.
From across time, from across reality and possibility, they, no.
We, gathered here.

This room, this place, these tables and chairs; This is where we come when there is a decision to be made.

Author's Note

Not trying to win any awards here. Writing things like this is kinda like self-help to me.