,
4 tweets,
1 min read
Read on Twitter
Sometimes it's good to pretend that I have a normal life. Norway's media is insular enough that normal people don't recognize me and that's kinda nice.
But then there are people who I can't pretend with. People who are just as broken as me, who are too real. They are normally other activists and I don't meet them very often and even when I do it's for a few short days.
How many of us will survive this? I don't know. We haven't said goodbye to the last comrade yet. Any one of us can be next to go.
They'll only eulogize us after we're gone. They'll make prizes and fellowships in our names, and maybe name a street or two after us. Meanwhile while we're alive we're scrambling, alone.
