They gaze down at me from their lofty heights. People my age and younger. People who did and died. They stare at me through images captured in time. They seem to be telling me, “We did as much as we could. Now it’s your turn.” I hear them. And I feel ashamed. But I try to be escapist about what I cannot do. Yet. “At least your enemy had a face. Mine doesn’t. You were fighting outsiders. I have to fight my own people, my brothers. You fought for a noble cause. What cause have I, except mine own?” They will not think bad of me if I continue this way. But I will. They’ll forgive my apathy and selfishness. But I cannot. There must a cause greater than yourself. And I think I know.