Adjusting

In "day of the triffids" by John Wyndham, these funny green lights appear in the sky, blinding pretty much everyone, then the next day killer vegetation starts growing in the streets and all hell breaks loose. Some people isolate, some run, some hunger for power and control.The fabric of society and humanity rapidly disintegrate and eventually a select sighted few, move to the Isle of wight. Because she knows this, I know this. It currently feels a bit like this. I wonder if she's thinking about the Isle of wight? I know for a fact when she was 21 she was asked to never come back to the isle of wight as she'd be arrested. She tried it on a football tour and nothing happened. Maybe it is an option after all??

My transport female has a partiality for dystopian disaster stories, and an actual mental illness. When said out loud, this doesn't sound too good. The current climate could play into paranoia and fear. Its not what it seems, believe me. She's very fond of reality and therefore, is following the rules and doing as she is told about isolation. It's tricky. The fallopian_ovarian cysterhood have been communicating, and things have changed in the outside world. For me as her vagina, it feel like there is no light at the end of the tunnel. I mean literally, she is spending so little time as a wandering biped and seated for large parts of the day, that  I'm squished in by the lady garden and no light is entering the tunnel.

Normally, and particularly in spring, it would be so bright I would be out on visits, wandering grassy hillsides and even being submerged in water. She calls is "Swimming" I think. I'd catch glimpses of the outside through a loose shorts side panel, or a thin cotton panty. Bright sunshine illuminating snatches of external reality. She isn't brave enough anymore for commando living so my sight of the word is surreptitious. Her partnering penis transporter may, in a moment of spontaneous madness, pull aside coverings and its like being exposed to an overwhelming cinematic experience of sound and colour. She calls him naughty and squeals, and then things go dark again.

Today, she wanted to experiment with indoor cardio as outside running is not currently allowed. I had my reservations. I could hear the smaller genetic versions of her bickering and a rather loud penis owner shouting instructions on her television. There was movement.  It just felt like there was a never ending clang, clang, clang of the the furry clam, slapping together in wild disarray. Wiggling back and forth, dipping up and down giving me motion sickness. No more 30 minutes of jogging. Gone is the gentle swishing together and stroking of my tender flange, to be replaced with a harsh bouncy clashing together, not unlike a 1980's toy of metal balls on someones desks, relentless pendulum bashing with no particular purpose, back and forth.

And then it was over. I am relieved. Thankfully no air has entered the fray or I'd have to exercise smooth muscle to expel it, and she would be embarrassed.  I think we are going to rest. And in resting I can contemplate the readjustments and ponder on the reality of vagina in yoga tomorrow. God help me!