A Tension Exists in the Utmost Room

In the utmost room of a building rich with story and stature, there exists a supposed sanctuary sapped with a holy tension that I was compelled to pursue. As I was led to understand, the room reveals itself in relative magnitude to lend itself to revelation that only the individual present is led to realize. All that a man was, is, and ever will be is taken into account.

I cannot, unfortunately, explain how I came to find this building; it is all I can do to tell how majestic it was in its primal grandeur. Matchless indeed in its architecture and design, there are no clear descriptions that can give on

The building itself stretched far into the sky, so tall that one’s eyes could not make out its rooftop. I entered with reverence and soon became aware of its profound sanctity as there were no stairs to assist in ascending to the utmost room. There was, as if quietly insisted by the building’s architect, only the bare means for one to climb by might and struggle to rise upwards, balcony after balcony stretching up story after story.

So I did. By my hands and feet, calloused through the tightening and retightening of my grip I scaled the never-ending stories in pursuit of the utmost room, whose hope of existence strengthened in my bones with each desperate inch I climbed.

At long last, I made out the forming of a rooftop above my head and saw one final balcony to reach and overcome. This was the utmost room that I had been purposed to find. With a final exerted effort, I pushed over the balcony wall; landing my feet into the room: the sanctuary of holy tension.

The room, covered with decadent rugs and furs of all nations, was adorned with only various sizes of tables that were methodically placed. On each table were picture frames of all the saints, holy men and women of my life.

Their faces followed mine as I walked to the hearth of the room. I turned to see a large, low-rising, table in the middle of the room. A figure sat on the opposite corner, alive and present with me in every way.

There she sat with legs curled around her, looking so beautiful as to make me think I had never laid eyes on a woman before. She looked at me with eyes half-hidden beneath her locks of glowing blonde hair and quietly proclaimed:

“I am your future.”

I could only offer silence as I stood in a stupor, locking eyes with this saintly woman. Was she real? Or was she a representation of something I was supposed to perceive? I had not the time to churn this enigma in my thoughts as we were not alone.

From the opposite corner a figure approached, crossing to the holy threshold of the sanctuary with the humility of a childhood friend. The figure, a woman so vaguely familiar, looked at me with eyes of pure hazel that perfectly matched her auburn hair. With smooth intention, she spoke to me:

“I am your past.”

So this is the tension that exists, a mystery I cannot fathom as I am caught betwixt the two. Am I to choose or am I to ponder? I have left myself to stand and wonder while two figures of divine symbolism await my hand. The utmost room holds a tension that I, by my own power, am powerless to force a decision upon and it is to this end that like a triangle of marble figures those within the tower remain.