Required Entry #4: Tour to the Vargas Museum

I.

        Naked, her hands are pressed behind her back: tied so tight she can barely move them.  Her body is bounded by ropes; I think the word is latex, never mind. She has those naturally beautiful and voluptuous hips, one would say they are worth dying for. Her waist is in the perfect symmetry of beauty: curvy and suggestive. Her breasts are exposed in such a way that even from a distance, its size and its shape are very noticeable. Tears are streaming like a river from her angelic face, but instead of an angry or mad expression, her face however shows something different, something with crossing eyebrows, lips parted, and eyes wide open in such a way that she appears to be confused: confused as to why a treasure like her that is supposed to be being treated with care, is being treated with despair. Her name is Filipinas, not a woman but is rather a sculpture created by infamous and national artist Guillermo E. Tolentino. (Filipinas in Bondage)

II.

        The green pasture that was Philippines is truly fascinating. One could not deny how blissful it is to once again see that breath-taking panorama in real life. Those clear blue sky that radiated warmth and life, the same beautiful sky that earned our country the title pearl of the east. The way the grasses are tall and the trees were the only thing that towered everything around. Those big black carabaos; with their pointed and sharp horns; as well as those white doves, with their heavenly feathers, were the only flying thing that can be seen in the sky. How peaceful it is to live in a place like these where native beautiful woman still roams the country: dark, high-chinned, and round rose with hair that is naturally wavy, like the sea, and black, as the night sky; or the time when our clothes were simply fabric made directly from natural materials that reflects how simple our life was, as opposed by todays demeaning short skirts. It is sad to think that now; we can only see the Philippines as this from paintings, visual mirrors from the preserved past and perhaps never actually with our own set of eyes. (Breeding Grounds, Fernando Amorsolo)

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