The Regeneration of Jilly Boyd

As I walked away from the computer yesterday, my heart ached for no discernible reason. Tears trickled from my eyes and soon turned into full-on sobs. I knew what it was.

The past few weeks… Months even, have been trans-formative. And it came together neatly in a bout of uncontrolled sub drop. Call it any drop, even. It was just a full-on brick landing squarely on my chest.

I knew I wasn’t going to take this lying down. I knew I had to do something to take me back to Earth. So, with every inch of strength left in my body, I willed myself to get up, get dressed and go out.

I automatically veered in the direction of the shop cum play space where the munch had been held the night before. I felt a stinging pain between my shoulders. The 21-year-old millstone might have been lifted, but there was still something there, trying to escape. Like the last remnants of the old me were on their way out.

I was regenerating. I kept expecting to whimper “I don’t want to go” and then burst out in a million lights, like a Time Lord on the edge of life and death.

C was sitting outside, decidedly less evil than on Sunday. He was friendly, as usual, and offered me some shortbread as I told my story. He listened patiently and bestowed his sage words on my soul. I stayed a while, just reveling in the sunshine and in the new me emerging.

This is the time for change, growth and evo/revolution. Time to get rid of the bitter taste of past emotions and grow as an author, sexual being and most of all, grow as me.

It is time for me to regenerate.

Not that I’ll be changing into Matt Smith, mind.

I do like a fez though.

They’re cool.

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