Meeting day. I dread this more than usual - apparently it was decided that we would go-live with the new project, which I'm adamantly against, since it has a less than stellar success rate. I'm the only one reporting problems though; most of the other testers have been busy blowing sunshine, so obviously it's my problem and/or something that I'm doing wrong. I just hope no one asks for my comments on the subject. I like my job, but I'm not going to lie to keep it. And truthfully, I hope for their sakes and ours that I'm wrong, that it is just me. I don't want the whole group to take a credibility hit if this thing crashes and burns the way I expect it to. But that's life, I guess. I seemed to be cursed with the role of Cassandra - I speak the truth about the future, but no one wants to hear...
Here I stand again, speaking to an empty room. My thoughts aren't worth the cyberspace they would take up if I cared to tweet or post to Facebook, but here I stand anyway. I had no idea how long it had been since my muse had forced me to write. I used to write almost daily, poetry mostly, when I was younger and believed that someone cared what I had to say. I wanted to be e.e. cummings or T.S. Eliot or anyone who seemed to be so comfortable in his own skin to pour out his emotions onto a blank page. It took me a few years to realize that the writers who filled my pantheon of literary deities were not that comfortable after all, but wrote because not writing was more painful than the spilling of emotion. So I think I will take up my keyboard once more, wade out into the battle, and write.
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