Jacob Lawrence, The Lovers (1946)

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May 24, 2005:

And yet, and yet, and yet. Always at all times that whispering voice of guilt. Not for the "betrayal" she accuses you of. But for hurting her so badly when you finally left. Nevermind yourself. That pain she lived through, and then the haunted look in her eyes for so long after, as though she were searching through her own quiet panic for some sign that she wasn't so valueless as she felt.

Shouldn't you have stayed longer? Weren't you soul mates?

I don't know, I don't know. From where I sit the whole thing seems simply sick. Two unwell people spinning fiction together. But I don't know. Always and forever there's that sympathy for the pain she felt, and that guilt that it was ever me who caused it.

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