#11 Would you still love me if I was a worm?

Sometimes you think it’s writers block and sometimes it’s just a complex sadness you can’t begin to explain.

Every time the sadness takes effect I feel the sudden urge to write. Then I sit with my stupid pen in hand and overly stickered obnoxious journal and find that there is nothing there. There is nothing to document. I think the sadness speaks for me, but sadness is my brother. A man of very few words.

There is romanticism in the man of few words or woman. A person who only needs to say what is needed. A groundhog who only need to come up for a quick bite or to look at its shadow. A pride and prejudice scene of a flexed hand. More often than not, those things say a lot more than grand gestures and  a monologue.

It is bit confusing to be in this state because I feel like as a writer, I am supposed to be able to  elucidate and explain to you in many words, feelings and stories.

I am quite comfortable down under. And no I don’t mean the continent or even six feet under, but I mean in this state of being. I think this is where the “if I was a worm, would you still love me?” question comes up. Would you still love me when I’m really not in talking mood? Would you love me when I can not listen?  Would you love me as I wriggle in the dirt of my existence? Would you love me when I have very little words? Would you love me if I can not prompt you? Worms do not  speak in any language and languish  in the depths. Yet they prove to be essential.

They come from the decomposition of past lives. The worms replenish and they do what they know how to do.

what do I know how to do? I know how to write. I know that my words speak louder than my actions. I am amplified in my words rather than my actions. As this writers block becomes more like compost and I become more like the worm, I thrive.

In the nitty gritty, waste, and decaying state of past lives, I become the fertilizer of potential growth and more life.