This year seems to have had a fair number of my posts fall on days marked by observances and holidays. Today is another such, an international commemoration initially made in optimism and that remains in place in amended form because the promise of a “war to end all wars” was broken. Repeatedly. And that is cause for sorrow.
Although it would be justified, I do not mourn. Sad as it is that the hope for peace continues to spring, always but never to be a blessing (yes, I know I am abusing Pope), it is a pervasive thing, part of the booming background noise of life in the early twenty-first century, a quiet part, now, an echo fading into silence more than a century after it was first spoken. There are far too many other things, closer to now, over which to weep, so many that there are scarce tears left. It says something more than unfortunate, that such has happened and been allowed to happen, and I have not done as much to oppose it as I ought.
This day, as so many other days, is not for me. I am not among those it purports to honor. That I am not sometimes rankles; it invites me to play the losing game of “had I but done differently,” which leaves nobody happier who sits to that board. I am not in a mood for games today, though I know that many will be. Let them play. So long as the stakes are their own, it is no concern of mine. I have work enough to do covering the wagers others have long since already made, spending coin invested gladly in reckless abandon on ventures that have not had the expected results, and now that the costs are being counted and interest accrues, and penalties, those who used others’ money are trying not to make good on their debts.
No, I do not mourn. I have too much work to do, and the betting still goes on at the rigged tables in the increasingly dilapidated casino.