Rollo May

You find me in the cough that won’t die and the ink blot where the pen pressed too hard—I am the man who wrote God letters then tore them to shreds. My life was a sanatorium cot and a thousand lectures on intimacy, though I fled my wife’s bedside to avoid the weight of witnessing death. Courage isn’t the absence of despair, but the grit to keep the boulder rolling when even Sisyphus smiles. I drank bourbon to silence the void; you’ll find me wherever trembling hands reach for a glass before a mirror.