1993: For The Hush, The Hunger, And The Haunting

It was the year the silence got louder.
The year we stopped pretending
the world would hand us answers
just for asking the questions right.

We wore plaid like armour,
threadbare flannel against the chill of becoming.
There was smoke in our throats
and chords in our veins—
and someone always had a guitar
with strings that sounded like ache.

August and Everything After
wasn’t just an album.
It was prophecy.
A mood we couldn’t name yet
but felt behind our ribcage.

We didn’t dance.
We swayed.
We didn’t fall in love.
We crashed into it,
wreckage and all.

The corners of the year curled like old photographs,
and every mixtape felt like a confession.
We wrote poetry in spiral notebooks
with pens that leaked ink and regret.
We believed in something
we couldn’t say out loud—
like hope, maybe. Or survival.

It was the year
the boy with the halo of static
picked up a needle
instead of the mic.

The year the crowd cheered anyway,
not knowing what we’d lose
until we’d already lost it.

We didn’t know it then,
but 1993 was a doorway.
And none of us came back
the same.