Maybe it’s the plight of the historian that we see too much.
That we spend so much time looking at the past
That we no longer see it as anything but an endless wheel turning and turning
And turning the turmoil and hurt we see in endless repeat
The black and white (if there ever even were) blurs to become an endless field of grey.
Punctuated by moments of light, to be sure, but more often
Swathed in a sea of darkness and misdeed.
Blinded, we become, even as our eyes continue to see what is
We are not shocked.
We are not surprised.
We are furious.