Wednesday - 1991

I wandered into the backyard. The grass was wet. There was a single, rusted swing set that faced a wooden fence. I sat on the swing. I didn't move. I just looked at the sky. It was a flat, pale gray. Not stormy. Not sunny. Just… indifferent.

We mythologize the 90s now. We turn them into a neon-soaked montage of Nickelodeon slime and grunge flannel. But we forget the silence. We forget the boredom. wednesday 1991

There is a specific Wednesday in the autumn of 1991 that I am convinced no one else remembers. I couldn’t tell you the date on the calendar—October 16th, perhaps, or the 23rd. The days bled into one another back then. But I remember the weight of that Wednesday. The smell of a mimeograph machine in a damp hallway. The specific drone of a fluorescent light. The way the world felt both suffocatingly small and terrifyingly infinite. I wandered into the backyard