I found that this year it made more sense to me than it has done before. Not so much dissonance, considerably more assonance. Aspects of it that I've formerly found to be jarring juxtapositions seemed this time more like tensions, sometimes productive ones; this might be down simply to me knowing much more about what's going on or it might be due to cultural shifts. I'm inclined to be suspicious of the disinterestedness of my own views about the day - after all I have a lot invested in the notion that peacetime acknowledgement of war doesn't celebrate militarism, patriotism and violence - but as my doctor reminded me today, with reference to an unrelated issue, I can afford to trust myself a little more when it comes to the question of whether I am thinking about things or dreaming about them.
I think the way I want to write about it is simply to write about how the day unfolded from my point of view.
My day began the same way any day where I have to get up unusually early begins: I was awake and restless well before the alarm went off. I didn't have the willpower to keep my eyes closed, and I looked at my phone at about three, and I read a column in the Guardian which
* not 'ANZAC Day'
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