Francis Murillo Emralino
San Pablo City, Philippines.
Green lights trace the catwalk as the Mexican muse travel with a mask surrounded by catchy phrases flavored with sadness, topped with short delights.
She opens up through the microphone: Viva! como esta?
And her metered words fell on deaf ears and on the love-struck alike.
Behind this magnificent muse is a line-up of men of words
whose pieces were brought to existence by her sweet and seductive whispers.
The finished pieces were compiled, all dedicated to her, annotated and stamped with her first photo taken on a train to Beirut.
As for me, I first saw her in a magazine while waiting on a train station in Seoul and I went to Macau to pray, closed my eyes, and knew right then and there
that I should write to her, see her, woo her, marry her.
And so on this pre-pageant night, I seat on the front rows
pen and paper on hand, waiting for the muse’s dictations to come.