The Joy, The Spark, The Creativity

If you were to ask nearly anyone who knows me, you would find that for the most part I'm an enjoyable person to be around. I am talkative, but I am also a good listener. I have a lot of positive things to say and I am very encouraging. I am really good at having fun and generally I make it easy for others to have fun as well. I remember being described once, when I worked in the plywood mill (which is the most boring mundane awful place to work[except for some of the people]) as being "frustratingly positive". Lately though, when I begin to write, I just feel down. My chest feels heavy, my brain hurts and the creativity that normally jumps right out of me lies dormant. I can only think of crappy things to write about. My spark is gone. I recently had a vision that was the most depressing thing I've ever seen. I was good motivation, for a normal time (is there such a thing?) however receiving it now just makes me sad. Starting this blog I envisioned encouraging and humorous stories and anecdotes would be clogging the pages, but it hasn't been so. So for my sister and anyone else who happens to stumble upon my blog, forgive me. Maybe eventually I will find my way to the surface of this dark water and be able to see again.

Description Practice

From the top of a dead stag, a buzzard gazed out across the land, waiting for some creature to succumb to the heat of the day and give up its life. A faint scent floated in on a light breeze, stirring the buzzard from its complacency. With an awkward flop, it left its tree-top resting place. With wings spread wide, it found a warm thermal and rode it like a moving sidewalk over the forest and field. An epic battle raged on the ground below, fought for as long as the earth was old. Though unnoticed by the winged scavenger, trees groaned on through their never ending struggle for more sunlight. Though large and powerful, one maneuver would take years to complete and centuries past before ground was taken or lost. Long bushy branches, like extremely hairy arms battered and pushed against each other. Multiple trees grown from the seeds of one blossom stretched ever upward in a race for higher standing. Never settling, never satisfied, always greedy for more, more, more.
Heedlessly the liver of the air passed by, drawn by the increasingly decadent smell of some form of flesh returning to dust. The bird flew lower and lower in slow circles over a field, tracing the scent. Finally it spotted its dinner. A large rat lay sprawled in the field, bloating and seemingly ready to pop. There was no apparently reason for its demise, but logic is seldom a part of the carrion cognitive process. Stepping the creatures grey head, the stubby white beak went to work, doing what it does best.
After downing a large chunk of especially soft underbelly skin, the lazy bird began to feast on the rich inner organs. With a now red beak, it removed the heart and lungs with the skill of surgeon running on a fifth of whiskey. The feast continued with the bite that's two bites at once, the stomach. Sadly for this poor buzzard, the logic that skipped being considered was the poison which did this rat in. Poison that was so strong and violent, it was still deadly.Before the rat was even half consumed, life had left the large bird. Days later, its scent would entice one of its brothers, and the circle continues.