A First Wind

January 16, 2025

I've always liked writing.

Its an act of freedom. Penning my mind down in words forms the shapeless blob of thoughts and mind-mud into coherent, even sometimes intelligent, ideas. Since the mid of 2024 C.E, I've tinkered with a funky lil' dusty computer moonlighting as a functional server. I use it to train my technical skills, and as a hobby. That server now serves another (among many) purpose. This blog.

I've always liked writing, but I never did it much.

As a kid I loved telling stories. Acting out adventures with my friends in school. We were pirates, jedi, scoundrels of every kind, and heroes too (sometimes). It was glorious. The skybridge between, the top floor where my classroom was and the hallway lined with computers (for some reason), had been defended from every manner of darkness creature by kids with guns made of thought and powers barely contained in overacted motions. At some point, I don't remember when, this sort of play became passé among my friends. It was hard. Something in me still wanted to play like that. Live the stories that were in my head. The pictures I saw sometimes clearer than the real world. Ah, I still long for it. But it wasn't to come again. And I remember that day. Under the flourescent light that once exploded, and how I perpetuated a myth about how it had left a cool splash on my shirt which was in fact, just the print of the shirt. Under that now-empty fixture, a girl I knew, Nikoline, looked me in the eye and said she felt too old to play. And we never did again. I had been writing stories my whole life at that point, just never on paper. Fantasy was a show in the theater of the mind only. And the theater had not closed, the actors simply stopped coming to work.

I've always liked writing, but I had to read first.

When I was around 14 years old I accidentally stole a book from a friend. It was a tome. Set with hundreds of pages, bound beautifully, on the cover was the striking image of a statuette with large sharp wings, and a head with red eyes and cephalopod features. Great Tales of Horror, it said, written in a blood-like red under the author's name. It was H.P Lovecraft, of course. Who else? My friend had shown it to me, since I talked often of Lovecraft, despite having read very little of his work. At this point I had played many years of WoW, and if you've ever been to Azeroth, you'll probably know a little about Lovecraft. The tentacled monsters coincidentally named 'The Forgotten Ones' had piqued my interest early on. This interest led me to wikis, and wikis led me to more wikis. From article to article, turn out there aren't many Kevin Bacons between the Forgotten Ones and the Old Gods. From C'thun to Cthulhu. Descending into weird fiction gave me power. I learned words I'd never seen, It gripped me so heavily I often had to read two books at the same time, one being an English-Danish dictionary. In my final years of “folkeskole”, the Danish primary school where you are from around 6~to around 16~, I had amassed a vocabulary of decent size. But I still didn't write.

I've always liked writing, but I was anxious

Teen years are rough. Especially for the socially anxious. I was awkward as a kid, but I had found my people along the way. At a LAN party held by the local extra-curricular school I had met people I would love forever. Then we went to different 'gymnasier' translated: high schools. It was daunting. So many new people. So many new things. Schedules, biology classes, homework I didn't understand. Gymnasiet didn't fit me, nor did I fit it. But I learned. not much in the way of maths or physics, but I learned how to be a social being again. In the 7th grade, I had my first anxiety attack. It sits clear as day in my mind. I had gone to the gas station for lunch. There was a queue, so I wasn't sure I'd make it back before class started. When I came back to the school the hallways were empty. Not a single other person. Limbo. Okay, I thought, I'm sweating a little cause I walked fast, no one will notice. I'm at the door, just open it up, apologize and sit at your seat. You like French class. When the door swung open all eyes were on me. Pin drop dead silence. Every head had turned. In my memory their eyes were all white out. No pupil. Just white lights staring at me. Fast breaths. Sweating more now. How should I act? I don't know. What if they hate me, what if I'm a joke, what if they'll laugh, what if- I hadn't opened the door. That was my first anxiety attack. I could not bring myself to open it. I left. Walked home, my parents' house being just 6 minutes away walking fast. In the living room I curled up on the couch. Tears soaked into the pillow. I had lied there many times before. It was my favourite spot, right where the light hit around 14:00. I fell asleep still crying. Once I woke up not even 15 minutes later I called my mom, told her I had left school, something was wrong and I didn't know what, but I needed help. My parents saved my life then. They took it seriously, and got me to as many psychologists as was needed for me to get better. I'm still not all the way better. For a long time I wanted to write. And every time I did, those same thoughts came back. What if they hate it? I don't even know who 'they' are. But I know they kept me from ever showing my words to anyone.

I've always liked writing, and I still do.

“As long back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a [writer]” -Goodfellas, edit mine.

Looking back on my life is a funny thing. I was there for all of it but it still feels like a movie I've watched. Scenes I can recall key parts from, but not the whole thing. I've wanted to write, to publish, and I've met obstacles, of course, but I have also been in my own way. Excuses about why I haven't done what I like, or why I couldn't have. These pages represent a step. A step off the path. I can't stop life from throwing hurdles, but I can move out of the way. Because I want to write, I want to express myself like I did all those years ago. Unapologetically and for no one but myself. I want my mind to be filled with colour, and shapes, and faces of people who have never existed. I want to cry at their misfortune and smile at their good times. And I want to share it, too. This is part of why I've made this blog. This is a place for me to place my thoughts. To work on projects I like. To practise my prose and sharpen my wit. But also a place to place a part of myself. We don't have unlimited time in life. It moves fast. And if we aren't careful we might miss it. When down the line becomes end of the line I don't want to look back at all the stories I didn't put to paper. I want to look at the colourful patches of ink in my skin, that one from 'On Sails of Smoke and Oars of Oil', or the family sigil I dreamt up for 'Wallfall'. All the books I can write, all the articles with my name at the bottom. Ambitious, I know. But there's plenty of life left, and hey, why shouldn't I aim for the stars? After all,

I've always liked writing.

-Ventus