Jacob Lawrence, "The Lovers," 1946
Jacob Lawrence, The Lovers (1946)
Can a Game Be Literature?

Mark's Pages

As the end approached she tried and tried to grow closer, showering me with attention and affection and sharing and sex.

It was me wanted out. Mistrust, insecurity, bafflement, disgust.

Who was she? Why did she want to be that person? What role did I play in helping or hindering or making no difference at all?

I don't know. I knew pain, and that forever I'd be on guard, combing her behavior for clues, seeking validation for every little thing she said.

It was too much stress, and it took me away from myself, turned me into a detective whose life was to investigate the beautiful mysteriosa.

I wish her love and every joy.