Three questionable nights of sleep

an accumulation of mucus

and a few frothy pints later

and I’m back at this place.

The walls look like they’ve been moved back

the ceilings appear elevated

the furniture’s disproportionate

and disaster feels imminent

(my GP said that might happen).

As dawn breaks and other minds rest

I pace restlessly round the room

watch sun pouring through the curtains

look at myself in the mirror

and run my hands across my face

in a bid to regain clarity.

Yet each time I end up back here,

observing my own self-departure.

Then again, who’d want this to be real?

I know I wouldn’t. THAT is for sure.