27/07/2025
๐๐ก ๐ง๐ฅ๐๐๐๐ฆ ๐ข๐ ๐ฅ๐จ๐ฆ๐ง ๐๐ก๐ ๐ฅ๐ข๐จ๐๐
In the red-hued light of the final frame, we, the narrators and the scribes in the wings, step forward for one last soliloquy.
We saw the rust first. Then the fire. And somewhere between the two, something was born. We gave it a name. ๐๐ค๐ช๐๐, a color akin to a world made of arches and echoes, built to hold what could not be contained: the students. ๐๐๐ ๐พ๐ง๐๐ข๐จ๐ค๐ฃ ๐๐๐จ๐ฉ of this story.
With no script but instinct, they stepped into the forge and made it blaze. They filled the university halls with something unforgettable. Their stories moved like smoke, the kind that slips through fingers but stains them still. In every page they etched, they blur the line between truth and fiction, sacred and profane, or accepted and reflected. From there, gravity ceased to hold.
And then, one rose.
๐๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฟ๐๐.
His role was never written in the lineup, but one played it just the same. With wings scorched not by failure, but by brilliance too bold for ceilings, they soared. Not toward the sun, but past it. We called it ๐๐๐๐ฃ๐จ๐ at first. Now, we call it ๐๐ก๐๐๐๐ฉ.
They did not defy gravity as an act. They made it their nature.
So this is where we place our pen down. We, ๐ง๐ต๐ฒ ๐ก๐ฒ๐ ๐๐น๐ฎ๐๐ฒ๐ฟ, the official yearbook publication of Western Mindanao State University, speak one last time.
[ ๐ง๐ต๐ฒ ๐๐๐ผ๐ฟ๐ ๐ผ๐ณ ๐๐ฒ๐ณ๐๐ถ๐ป๐ด ๐๐ฟ๐ฎ๐๐ถ๐๐ ๐ต๐ฎ๐ ๐ฟ๐ฒ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ต๐ฒ๐ฑ ๐ถ๐๐ ๐ฒ๐ป๐ฑ๐ถ๐ป๐ด. ]
But oh, what a flight it was, Ikaria Solaris.
