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Help[Opinions] Re: Jerrica for a girl. Thoughts?
in reply to a message by Guest
At first glance I hated it, but maybe I'd find it more bearable with a spelling like Gerika... or hmm no I don't like it either.
anyways, disregard this I need to copy and paste this and I can't sign into my school account to move it and this was the only way I could think of
Everyone with a memory know it means that every so often a flickering light, an old friend, or an unidentifiable smell will call to them strangely.
And I’m called by a place. It's just a jumble of stick forts near the bank of the river, decorated on the inside with feathers and now ancient flowers hanging in the ceiling. The ground is still etched in hopscotch and four-square formations, or little doodles in the rock hard muck, since the creek’s drying up. The sunsets are silent as my classrooms during a test, just instead of stress, or mental math hanging in the air, rays of pink and gold softly disappear beneath the earth.
It's built at the creek behind my house. Me and my friends built it when we were all really young, and we used to hang around it all the time. But now we’re tethered to homework assignments, swim meets, dance combinations, chess teams, social media, and that dead-level spirit of friendship we all had no longer binds us. And I think I’ve felt the last traces of our tweenhood drip beneath the earth with the sunset. It’s become something else, something I wouldn’t give a name.
At twilight it's dark. Like, halloween movie dark. The trees are shadowed. Bits of moss and dead leaves float across the creek's surface like it's some lonely road. Stars glow like squelched suns over the ancient, abandoned children's village. Sometimes I can go down there, sitting alone for hours, breathing in, and out, the whisper of a distant past.
anyways, disregard this I need to copy and paste this and I can't sign into my school account to move it and this was the only way I could think of
Everyone with a memory know it means that every so often a flickering light, an old friend, or an unidentifiable smell will call to them strangely.
And I’m called by a place. It's just a jumble of stick forts near the bank of the river, decorated on the inside with feathers and now ancient flowers hanging in the ceiling. The ground is still etched in hopscotch and four-square formations, or little doodles in the rock hard muck, since the creek’s drying up. The sunsets are silent as my classrooms during a test, just instead of stress, or mental math hanging in the air, rays of pink and gold softly disappear beneath the earth.
It's built at the creek behind my house. Me and my friends built it when we were all really young, and we used to hang around it all the time. But now we’re tethered to homework assignments, swim meets, dance combinations, chess teams, social media, and that dead-level spirit of friendship we all had no longer binds us. And I think I’ve felt the last traces of our tweenhood drip beneath the earth with the sunset. It’s become something else, something I wouldn’t give a name.
At twilight it's dark. Like, halloween movie dark. The trees are shadowed. Bits of moss and dead leaves float across the creek's surface like it's some lonely road. Stars glow like squelched suns over the ancient, abandoned children's village. Sometimes I can go down there, sitting alone for hours, breathing in, and out, the whisper of a distant past.
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