But 1988 was the year the Berlin Wall still stood, Margaret Thatcher was in her third term, and in Denmark, where I was living at the time, the autumn rains came early and stayed late. I remember cycling through Nørrebro one November evening, coat soaked through, radio playing something melancholic, and thinking: I can’t keep doing this.

I’m not the same person I was in 1988. Thank god. But I still carry that night with me—the rain on the window, the quiet, the slow unclenching of a fist I didn’t know I’d been making for years.

It won’t feel like victory. It’ll feel like falling. But sometimes, falling is the only way to find out you had wings all along.

Overgivelse — 1988

But 1988 was the year the Berlin Wall still stood, Margaret Thatcher was in her third term, and in Denmark, where I was living at the time, the autumn rains came early and stayed late. I remember cycling through Nørrebro one November evening, coat soaked through, radio playing something melancholic, and thinking: I can’t keep doing this.

I’m not the same person I was in 1988. Thank god. But I still carry that night with me—the rain on the window, the quiet, the slow unclenching of a fist I didn’t know I’d been making for years.

It won’t feel like victory. It’ll feel like falling. But sometimes, falling is the only way to find out you had wings all along.

Overgivelse 1988

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