Last week, my client was having some hardware problem and had been chasing me to find a solution. That's normal because solving problems is my job. But when problems are stated vaguely and part of stating it involves passing blame on code that had been working for years, it's not a very comfortable position to be in. It took two whole days and then some for them to realise that the problem really is an isolated case— a hardware issue that I have no way of fixing from my end. And it's sad that such a realisation only came when I was just about to lose my temper because I do have other deliverables; working all by myself and all.
But all this came in the middle of something. Something about a girl who ran when she saw me in a room just trying to learn a song. I can't help but feel so hated and so despised that such an innocent activity will cause one to panic in such a way. What did she think I would have done? I've spent the whole weekend thinking about things, reading everything I've written since December of last year, digging up memories about everything that I may have said or did.
If anything, the last few pieces where I used metaphors of a wind whispering things in the stairwell may have been a trigger. But this had been going on way before I started using that imagery. So, perhaps it is the entirety of it. That, like the monkey on my back, this is not caused by a single event bur a series of events that was just too long to ignore. Am I worth hating for that, though?
As much as I had been circumspect about things, disguising emotions in parables and symbolism, I have only spoken the truth. Maybe that is what she hates. She hates it that I can say what needs to be said— as I am doing now— and despises me because she cannot do the same. She would rather leave me in the dark or be in the dark herself hoping that it will just swallow all of this and make her forget that, even if it was just for a handful of times, she liked this. Maybe she's hoping that on my own, I will decide to not be here any more, find somewhere else to go, forget every word I've written and every line I've drawn and every note in all the songs that made for her.
The truth can, indeed, be scary. And the truth is, I will not be happy anywhere else despite all of this. The truth is I am to stay. The truth is I will always think about her whenever things go badly at work; whisper her name whenever I find myself between the goal posts; speak her name over the microphone whenever we play certain songs. And everyone will wonder who this Dolly is and what is it about her that makes me do things a bit better than usual. I will, of course, wonder with all of them because I don't know either— and that's the truth.
She will keep on hating me for all of this. And everybody around her will despise me for all that will be; when I am able to solve problems, when I am able defend what needs to be defended, when the crowd applauds and the beer flows after a job well done.