scentofink

Hi, how are you? 
          
          
          Book 2 of Hopeless shadow and Golden urns now reaches its final page, and I am endlessly thankful for those who remained until the end, those who waited, believed, and read HSGU patiently. When I looked back on my original drafts, I saw that too much had been woven into a single volume, making it overly complex (in my opinion), and so I decided that HSGU would be better told across four volumes. 
          
          
          I must admit that these past few months I am not in the ideal creative flow making is difficult for me to create a pristine space for my writing, and so I wish for my future stories to not be impacted by anything. I wish to enter a state of mind that requires a separation from all the outside influence and feel that invisible freedom once again, free from any restriction and distractions. 
          
          
          I hope to continue writing in this manner, and to offer those who read my story a quiet and safe space, where imagination may linger without fear and bloom in its own time.

I am not sure if sharing this might be too much, but I have always been fond of trees. I love looking at them, and I always find comfort in their presence. You can absolutely find a quiet companion with them. There is also something religious about the way they grow silently, and something sacramental in their quiet way of surviving, living without the need to be witnessed. And this might feel random, but I opened my notes app yesterday, and found all the poetry that I wrote, as if they were silently waiting for me to write more. But the thing about me and poetry is this: I only write poems when I am either falling in love or falling apart. But as I scroll and read all the words I wrote, I must admit that something gentle hit me, and as dramatic as it sounds, it feels as though the whisper of my younger self is passing through the deepest parts of my marrow. And in that moment, I think that my poems are growing the same way — soundlessly and intentionally, but I do not want to keep them for too long, I will be sharing a collection of them with you.
          
          
          I do not think I am a good writer, and even less a poet. But in writing, I feel free. I am not certain if my words are enough, or if they ever will be, but the thought of them existing with me, within me, and long after me makes me quietly happy—and that is already something. I will name it Rooted in Permanence. I hope reading it gives you as much pleasure as I had writing it.

Hi, I really miss writing my thoughts and feelings here.
          
          
          How are you? I really hope you are doing well. Life got so serious, and somewhere between responsibility and ruin, I lost touch with the soul that once wrote freely. It’s embarrassing to say the least, but that is my truth and I will always hold that. My love for writing fell into deep silence, trapped between the echoes of my own doubts. Burdened by what stood before me, made me lose touch with the love I once had for writing. Writing feel like a distant country I can still remember but no longer reach. I honestly miss tracing sentences like familiar roads, trusting they would lead me to somewhere true, but now, I can no longer find the end of the sentence. I don’t want to live as a writer reduced to memory and echo of what I used to be instead of becoming more. I want to feel that invisible freedom again through writing. I know my love for writing waits beneath everything life has demanded of me.
          
          
          My palm is full of hopes, in different shapes of longing, but one of it, is for you to be patient with me. I am sorry for not keeping my promises. I will write again, and I will not be afraid of how it spills at the cracks of my heart. I will no longer question how my story becomes, nor fear the shadow that comes before it. I realized many things: that when love meets its loss, a person’s heart changes, and so does their language. Writing, for some (including me) becomes really hard, because it is the amount of grief that refuses to take its shape. And only when you enter the season of gentleness, will you come to understand that the love for writing is not lost in the grief of losing something, it is always there, quietly waiting for the version of you strong enough to hold what once broke you.
           
          
          This is a long message (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ) But for my story updates (I will paste in the comment because I exceeded the maximum number (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ) 
          
          
          Thank you so much and I wish you a season of gentleness.
           

Hi, how are you?
          
          I’ve just published Chapters 90, 91, and 92, definitely some of the longest chapters I’ve ever written for this story. I won’t lie, finishing them was challenging, especially as my health hasn’t been at its best lately (no, I’m not actually getting old yet—huhu).
          
          I also want to apologize for saying I would publish the final ten chapters today. I promise to release the remaining chapters before the end of the year, and I truly hope everything goes well, for me and for you of course. 
          
          This month has been a tough one, but I did enjoy Christmas, and I pray to enjoy the rest of the year as it gently comes to a close. I hope the same warmth and peace find you too.
          
          To everyone who’s reading and adding my stories to your reading lists, I’m beyond grateful. Thank you so much for your kindness and patience. Please take care of yourselves and always stay healthy.

miss ko na po sila lana and sibyl, when po ang update? miss na miss ko na din si jane and heather na hindi ko masyadong nabasa sa volume 2 ACKSKSGHUSAVA

Thank you so much for reaching 5,000 reads on my stories, Hopeless Shadow and Golden Urns. I deeply appreciate every read and vote. I’m truly grateful for all your support, especially because this story is one that comes from the depths of my soul, and I’m honored to share it with you. I feel like every chapter exposes something about myself. It was uncomfortable at first to use a language that will define the yearning and something that I consider rotten inside of me. It is like being naked to the eyes before you.
          
          
          I initially planned Hopeless Shadow and Golden Urns as a trilogy, aiming to write a total of 200 chapters. But as I began writing volume two, I realized that fitting 100 chapters into one volume would be overwhelming. I don’t want to cram everything into a single book. I know some readers may feel intimidated by very long volumes, and for the sake of my own balance — managing plot development alongside romantic signs of devotion, I decided it’s better to expand the story into a four-volume series. I know, I know huhu. But still, thank you so much for reading my story (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ)

author!!! congratulations po for hitting 5k reads sa hsgu. more numbers to come! super deserving!!!

Going back to my roots ✍︎
          
          
          Hopeless shadow and Golden urns 2:  Kabanata 86
          Poetry in Motion: Kabanata 11
          Signs of Romance: Simula 
          
          
          Happy reading (..◜ᴗ◝..)
          
          

Hi, how are you?
          
          
          Before I write, I just want to share something that has been sitting heavy on my chest for a long time. I read somewhere that to some people, the mere existence of a certain person in this world is, in itself, a form of hope. I want to bare my thoughts and be honest: I’m not in a state that I take any pleasure in. Everything feels so heavy — a kind of weight that no amount of word could ever truly capture. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel limited. This season of my life feels like the arrival of autumn — a smooth passage from the lively warmth of summer to winter's quiet calm. A transformation I wasn’t prepared for.
          
          
          Every one of my heartbeats feels like a distant dream I no longer recognize.
          And during times like this, my usual coping mechanism is to deactivate my socials — which I’ve already done. I’ve deactivated my personal accounts and deleted every social app. So, if you happen to message me on my Facebook account (scentofink wp), I won’t be able to respond. I will move like a gentle breeze, and I will hold and honor my truth. I know I’ll move forward eventually, but for now, let me sit with this pain — grieve it, if I must. I want to sit with it, but I don’t want to stay there too long. I’ll continue to write, finish everything, and hopefully publish more stories before the year ends.
          
          
          There is so much I still want to do, and I won’t let the sadness inside me stop me. I will grieve this pain and let it go — gently. And I will move forward with more softness and kindness than before. If you’re still reading this, thank you — thank you for still being here, for reading my story. I deeply appreciate every read, every comment, every vote. I’ll see you next year. But don’t worry — I’ll keep updating. Until then, stay healthy and safe. Thank you.

Hi, how are you?
          
          
          I just want to share my thoughts while writing the Kabanata 80 of Hopeless shadow and Golden urns. I got so emotional for a lot of reasons. It felt as if the air was thick while I was writing every single word—yet they all arrived to me like a gentle whisper. A reminder that I am the one writing the story. Even before writing the full plot, I knew I could never fully give justice to my imagination. I also knew that, in the process of writing this novel, it would reshape my perceptions about everything—and I was right.
          
          
          Writing this chapter, I fell in love with the story all over again. It sits me back to the desire resting in the deepest part of my bones. Two characters in this chapter, deeply in love yet their aspirations and desires do not follow the same thread and will never end the same way. As a writer, I already know what will happen next, yet I cannot help but cling to the hundreds and thousands of hopes now spilling at the cracks of my heart. It hurts when the separation is not only silent—but when the distance that follows becomes its own shadow.