text: I felt it for the first time when I was 12. I learnt about worms in school and I had always been very intrigued by them. They need warm places to live, breathe through their skin, and their colors range from red to brown. I could not tell why adults always refused to tell me about them. It was as if I could not even look at one. I thought, what's wrong with taking a peak? As long as I don't keep it, I don't see the harm. At first, I could not tell that I was feeling a little worm. I thought it would be somewhat gooey, but it felt soft and cold, and it perfectly blended with the back of my head, making it really hard to spot. Indeed, I still haven't put my eye on it. I thought, however, that it was normal, and that everyone gets a little worm every once in a while. I saw some on my classmates, teachers, and in my mom, but these seemed to quickly vanish. My worm was different, though. It was a little bit like me. It liked the things I liked, and disliked the things I didn't. It would also help me sometimes. For example, if I was too mean to my friends, or I disappointed my parents, it stung me very hard in the back of my head. I liked my little worm. It made me different from the rest, and made me see the world from a much safer and realistic point of view. After a couple of years, I finally let the worm into my head. Once inside, my little worm got full access to my thoughts. This was good, I told myself, as every sting was a sign that something needed a little fixing. But time passed, and the stinging got more and more painful. Soon, I wasn't able to produce a single thought that came without a spurt of agony; a single action without a burst of misery. But my worm was right: I was repugnant. I was a revolting, soggy, heinous burden. I infected those around me, brought deep sorrow to every room. I hated my little worm, and yet I was nothing without it. One day, almost overnight, I couldn't feel it anymore. My thoughts were free and everything seemed so clear so suddenly. I was scared, but very excited. I had learnt a lot thanks to my little worm, and I owed it who I was. It was a new beginning, of forgiveness, growth, and experimentation. It was still in my head, though. And sometimes, some days, it stung. But it brought with it a feeling of familiarity, trust, and even nostalgia. My little worm was my friend now. I grew up, and my little worm did too. I could feel its bulkier size, its larger weight. We were gonna be unstoppable. Nonetheless, I found it a bit weird that I couldn't only feel it in the back of my head anymore. I now felt it close to my forehead, in between my temples. I guess it had just been moving around. This was about the time when I started spending way too much time inside my own head. It wasn't that interesting or fun, but it felt more appealing than looking at the outside. Colors were lifeless, sounds were flat, food was insipid. People seemed bland, learning felt pointless, curiosity vanished. My little worm doesn't sting anymore. But it now blurs all colors, dampens all music, encases all words. Everywhere I look I see its shadow, every breath I take I feel its tail pulling on my eyes. When standing it numbs my eyelids, but when laying down it dries and hardens them; when speaking it sucks my thoughts; when smiling it clots my cheeks. My head gets heavier every day, making it harder to raise. My arms seem to move by themselves, my legs have grown free from my commands. My mind is not mine anymore. Sometimes, when taking the bus to work, I like looking deep into people's eyes. And sometimes, if I look hard enough, I can tell whether theirs is red or brown.