POV: RENATA SILVEIRA.
It was strange how, after so many classes with Professor Francisco, I still felt that mix of tiredness and curiosity every time he wrote something new on the board.
After the last energy training class with Professor Miguel, it was interesting to review some basics in this lesson.
There was no characteristic smell of chalk—it was a digital board. But the experience was still cool.
The school, now in its usual routine, had lost the bustle of the first two weeks. The normalcy of the school year had set in for everyone.
Especially our dear teacher, he always found a way to turn reviews into something that made sense even to us, who were already tired of hearing the same concepts.
That day, he started with something simple, almost obvious, but which carried a different weight in his voice:
"Literary marks, as we've seen, have four core characteristics: the base book, mastery time, dominator level, and its ability. You already know this"
Every student at that school had heard that at least once in their lives. We had read it since the first year of elementary school.
But still, hearing it from him felt like confirmation, as if he were pulling us back to the ground before we advanced too far.
While he spoke, he drew circles connected by arrows on the board, a crooked drawing only he seemed to understand. I tried to follow along.
"See, these four characteristics form the base, but what matters is how they intertwine with different professions," he said as he finished the previous diagram.
And within it, he wrote several common professions of daily life.
"Today, you see scientists, whose marks are mostly analogous, with layers upon layers of interpretive style. Athletes, on the other hand, are dominated by literal style marks. Every movement, every technique is tied to this more direct form of manifestation."
That made me think. I always liked observing how different people related to their marks.
My mother, for example, was never an athlete, but her mark had an almost physical precision, as if it was made for movement.
I, on the other hand, felt mine spread like an ink stain: more interpretive, less practical.
Francisco interrupted my wanderings with a tap of the digital pen on the board.
"Now, let's review the dominator codes. Everyone knows: blue for secondary, purple for primary, red for authorial, and the rare and uncertain: gold, for generational."
The whole class murmured, as if simply mentioning gold carried extra weight. I felt it too.
Gold always seemed like a distant color, almost unreachable. It felt like a fairy tale.
"Each color comes from the flow of magical energy that runs through the nerves connected to the brain," he went on, gesturing as if he could trace the path of that energy through the air.
"And it goes to the wrists, where most of us manifest our powers."
I looked at my hands.
How many times had I felt that tingling in my wrists, as if the energy was begging to be released?
It was strange to think that glow, that light we all knew, was just the visible effect of something much more microscopic happening inside our bodies.
We saw only the result, but the scientific nature of this happened at scales we couldn't even imagine.
Francisco paused, took a deep breath, and asked:
"Guys, what do you think of this reasoning: if we've supposedly never seen generational authors, how come we already have descriptions of the color they emit?"
The following silence was uncomfortable.
I had no answer, but thought of the theories that floated around, the ones I loved to debate.
There was always someone who said they knew someone who swore they had seen a gold author.
The teacher didn't wait long and answered himself:
"This is more common than it seems. Many believe they never existed, but there have indeed been generational authors. Very few, of course, and in times when records were faulty. That's why the evidence is scarce"
He gave a half smile, as if about to reveal a secret.
"The most famous example is the classic and famous, William Shakespeare."
The class reacted instantly, some laughed, others wide-eyed. I was somewhere in the middle, confused.
Of course I knew Shakespeare, who didn't?
But I found myself wondering: What would his powers have been like?
Continuing his explanation, the teacher concluded:
"Everyone knows his works, but the impact he had is not just cultural. It's magical. Shakespeare was probably the greatest mage and author who ever existed. His impact is measured not just in popularity, but in depth of ideas."
I jotted that down quickly, not really knowing why. Maybe it was just the strength of his statement.
"Some people say he never really existed," Francisco continued. "Some claim Shakespeare was just a pseudonym, a front used by Queen Elizabeth I."
A murmur passed through the class. The theory wasn't new, but hearing it from the teacher made it more intriguing.
"These people argue it's impossible for one man to have written so many memorable works in such a short time. Strange, right? We question the past, but rarely look at the present."
He leaned on the chair next to the desk and folded his arms.
"With so much technology, so much knowledge, why do we not have more great geniuses like the ancient polymaths today?"
The question hung in the air. I felt it weigh on me. Could it be true?
Was our era doomed to mediocrity, incapable of producing a new Shakespeare, a new Leonardo da Vinci?
I thought about myself, my struggles, my failed attempts to master my mark.
Would it be possible to get close to something like that?
Or were we all stuck in a time when genius was rare, almost impossible?
While the class discussed quietly, I kept looking at my hands.
Maybe, I thought, the problem wasn't the lack of geniuses, but the way we looked at them.
Maybe they were out there, hidden among us, waiting for someone to recognize them
And, for a moment, I wondered if someday I could be remembered that way.
'Who knows, maybe one day…'