To write our constitution is for the past, the present, and the

Host: The hall was half-lit, its walls adorned with portraits of men and women long gone — their painted eyes seeming to follow every motion, every breath, every hesitation. Outside, the rain tapped steadily against the windows, a slow, patient rhythm that echoed like a heartbeat beneath the sound of distant thunder.

Host: A long wooden table stretched across the center of the room, covered in papers, ink, and the remnants of midnight work — crumpled drafts, pens chewed to exhaustion, coffee cups trembling in the faint hum of an electric fan.

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table, his grey eyes heavy with thought, while Jeeny stood near the window, her silhouette framed by the city’s neon pulse outside.

Jeeny: (softly) “Ferdinand Marcos once said, ‘To write our constitution is for the past, the present, and the future to come together all at once in one single motion, in one single heave, one single cry. For we correct the errors of the past and chart a new course for the future, based on the experience of the present.’”
(She turned to face him.) “Can you feel that, Jack? That weight — the merging of time in one breath?”

Jack: (grimly) “I feel the arrogance in it.”

Jeeny: (frowning) “Arrogance?”

Jack: “Yes. The idea that a constitution — words on paper — can fix the past, direct the future, and satisfy the present all at once. It’s poetic, but it’s dangerous. No document can carry that much.”

Host: A flicker of lightning flashed, briefly illuminating his face — sharp, weary, unyielding.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what law is supposed to do? To bind memory to hope? To make sure we don’t repeat what broke us before?”

Jack: (leaning back) “Maybe in theory. But history’s written in blood, not ink. Every constitution is a response to trauma. It’s not a cure — it’s a bandage on a wound that keeps reopening.”

Host: The rain grew heavier now, drumming on the windows. The room’s shadows shifted with every flash outside, like the ghosts of those who had written before — watching, judging.

Jeeny: “Then maybe the act of writing itself is the healing. Marcos wasn’t wrong when he said it’s a ‘heave’ — it’s not gentle, it’s struggle. Every word is an argument between who we were and who we want to be.”

Jack: “You’re forgetting who said it. He wrote his own rules to hold power. His version of a constitution wasn’t a heave — it was a grip.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “You think power erases the truth of the words?”

Jack: “No. It corrupts their intention. A tyrant can speak of unity, and it still stinks of control.”

Host: The fan turned, scattering a few loose papers to the floor. One sheet caught the light — a draft line that read, “We, the people…” — incomplete, hanging like a promise unfulfilled.

Jeeny: “But what if the words still outlive the author? What if even a tyrant, in a rare moment of vision, touches something universal?”

Jack: “Then it’s irony at its finest — that the man who choked liberty understood its poetry.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he understood it precisely because he choked it. Power always knows what it destroys. That’s why the line rings true — the past, the present, the future… they really do collide when you try to define who you are as a nation.”

Host: The storm outside swelled, thunder rolling like the sound of an ancient verdict being handed down.

Jack: “Do you believe nations can actually learn from their past? Or do they just rewrite it until it flatters them?”

Jeeny: “They learn — slowly, painfully. Through repetition. Through shame. Through the courage of memory.”

Jack: “You’re too hopeful.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m just unwilling to let cynicism be the final draft.”

Host: The lights flickered, momentarily dimming to the rhythm of the thunder. In that brief darkness, their silhouettes became almost indistinguishable — two shadows arguing in the same shape of longing.

Jack: “Constitutions aren’t living documents, Jeeny. They’re fossils of good intentions. Every generation interprets them differently, reshapes them, bends them. The moment they’re written, they start to decay.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe decay is what keeps them alive. Every generation must rewrite, not to erase, but to renew. That’s what Marcos meant — even if he never practiced it. The act of writing isn’t about perfection. It’s about persistence.”

Host: A pause — heavy, dense with the noise of the storm and the silence of thought. Jack rose, walking toward the window beside her. Outside, the streets below glowed wet and alive. Cars moved like veins of light, pulsing through a city that never fully slept.

Jack: “You know, when I was young, I thought nations were immortal. I thought once a law was written, it was forever. But now I see — countries are like people. They remember wrong. They lie. They forget.”

Jeeny: “But they also forgive. And that’s how they keep moving.”

Jack: “Forgiveness without accountability is just amnesia.”

Jeeny: “And accountability without compassion is just vengeance.”

Host: The rain slowed, turning into a soft patter, almost rhythmic, like a heartbeat finding calm.

Jeeny: “Think about what he said — ‘one single cry.’ That’s not the voice of a ruler. That’s the voice of a people trying to exist. A constitution isn’t just ink and law; it’s an act of collective breath. It’s how a country remembers what it means to be human.”

Jack: “And yet, it’s written by the few for the many.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But the few are still human. The question is whether they’re listening when they write.”

Host: Jack looked at her — long, searching. Then his gaze drifted to the papers again. He picked one up, smoothing its creases with his fingers.

Jack: “You ever think we’ll get it right?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “No. But that’s the beauty of it. It’s never meant to be right. It’s meant to be real.”

Host: The lightning flashed again — this time softer, distant. The room felt different now — not a war room of debate, but a sanctuary of reckoning.

Jack: “So writing a constitution is… what? An act of faith?”

Jeeny: “No. An act of memory. And memory, when shared, becomes destiny.”

Host: He set the paper down, his hand lingering on the words. For a long moment, neither spoke. The storm had passed, but its echo still whispered in the glass.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it really is a cry — one we keep rewriting until someone finally hears it.”

Jeeny: “And maybe the cry isn’t for power, Jack. Maybe it’s for understanding — for balance between who we were and who we still might become.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. The sound was deep, resonant — like history taking a breath.

Host: Jeeny gathered the scattered papers, pressing them into a single neat pile. Jack watched her — the small, steady rhythm of her movement, the reverence in her touch.

Host: She looked up. “You know, it doesn’t matter who writes it. What matters is who remembers it.”

Jack: (quietly) “Then let’s make sure we remember well.”

Host: Outside, the clouds parted, revealing a single thin streak of moonlight that cut through the glass and fell directly across the table, illuminating the words: We, the people.

Host: And in that pale, unwavering light, the past, the present, and the future seemed — for a single heartbeat — to truly come together.

Host: One cry, one motion, one fragile faith — not in the power of men,
but in the power of memory to become tomorrow’s truth.