POV: HELENA IVYRA.
And there I was, walking down the street towards the city center, at my usual fast pace.
People often said: "Helena, you walk too fast!" Honestly, I never knew if it was true or if people are just too slow these days, but I kept up my hare's pace. I've always been a fast-paced person.
"I don't know if it's the pace of someone in a hurry or someone who just wants to clear their head…" I pondered.
The weather was strange, neither too sunny nor too rainy. That emotionless grey, but comfortable enough for no one to find bad.
João Batista was already in its typical early afternoon: hurried drivers, attendants organizing shop windows, the post office making deliveries everywhere.
The standard routine, the classic yellow buses taking people across the city, and the characteristic high movement of Fiorinos leaving factories and heading to sewing studios, these two were probably the most common vehicles to see on busy days like this.
It was funny how each one had their occupation, their goal, their urgency. Some willingly, others out of obligation. After living there practically my whole life, that scenery had become a constant.
The classic Batistense routine!
João Batista was a quiet city. Despite trying to be a metropolis, it was just a small, growing city.
A little more than a village, a little less than a hub. Its streets were filled with an economy driven by the footwear trade, with its various shoe factories that, for a long time, sustained not only the city but also the pride of many people.
And of course, the strong descent from the southern European cattle-raising lands that so marked the local culture.
"Always busy, but always welcoming," I reflected, as I observed the city where, although I hadn't been born, I had lived long enough to be practically a native by consideration.
The city looked like a younger sister. Always trying to catch up with older sisters, like Brusque and Blumenau. It compared itself to them, but also fought not to be just a shadow.
That region was made up of people accustomed to long work routines, but who carried in their hearts a passion for Gaúcha and Catarinense traditions. A Catarinense city with a Gaúcha soul, or vice-versa. Sometimes, it was no longer easy to distinguish.
As I passed the first corner, I noticed the city's old visual confusion. New buildings appeared here and there, with that simple, yet direct, almost impatient style. They looked like thorns pointing to the sky, as if the ground was in full adolescence, with architectural acne. Something about those buildings made me think.
They were almost modern temples, built for the adoration of new gods.
Even so, around them were the small old houses, forgotten like lost ruins. Some with low walls, open windows, verandas that seemed polite and invited people in, like Dona Florinda did with Professor Linguiça, I mean, Girafales. "Heh, heh."
My questionable humor, it's complicated.
Turning my attention back to those houses, which seemed real, they seemed like homes. Not those spy movie fortresses, surrounded by cameras and sensors.
As if they were made to repel people. Though, that vibe seemed more in line with Dona Florinda, who wanted to distance herself from the "riff-raff" she claimed not to be part of.
It was as if modern architects had taken inspiration from shark cages. But the sharks, ironically, walked on two legs. And they were of the same species. Strange world, isn't it?
And if there was one thing João Batista had too much of, it was small businesses. Every square meter had a pharmacy, a beauty salon, a dealership. And that last one, seriously? It was almost offensive.
'There were more cars than people in that city! Good thing Transformers aren't real, because otherwise we'd be screwed.'
I remembered the certain irony of seeing the pile of cars lined up. If it were a robot battlefield, the city would have been in ruins for years. You could even set up a union of automotive cyborgs.
The city had several streets and alleys, and only a few main avenues; these usually crossed the river that separated the city into two parts.
There were two bridges always used to transit within the city, and it was precisely one of them that I would soon be crossing to reach my final destination.
Even with that flood of businesses, there was one type that was almost an urban legend. A rare type, almost a Shiny Pokémon. Libraries.
I remembered a phrase I heard in school: For every three pharmacies opened, one library closes.
Maybe it was just the teacher trying to make an impression. But it seemed true. There was only one functioning library in the entire city. The others either became warehouses, or parking lots, or simply turned to dust in Thanos' snap.
One of them was on my way that day.
After crossing the second bridge, the one that cut through the city, I turned the next corner. And there it was. Ta-da!
A two-story building, with a peeling facade and a heavy silence. A funeral silence. Which made sense, after all, it was a library. Or at least... it had been one.
Now, it was just an echo of what it once was. They said it had closed due to financial instability. But I knew the real reason was another. Lack of people.
It was a tomb. A cemetery of words no one wanted to read anymore. The city had everything. It had medicine, it had cars, it had aesthetics. Here, you fed your stomach, your ego, your status. And also, anxiety.
But enriching the soul with stories, with reading, with imagination? That seemed like a thing of the past. As if it were too dangerous or even too abstract... I don't know, it was strange.
Words were the things we used most in life, and yet, it seemed people were afraid of their use. Afraid of what they could do. Of what they could set free. Of what they could question.
I remembered some history classes, where the teacher talked about the ancient Greek polis. Where the public squares were open-air libraries.
Where people taught, learned, conversed, debated. Where reading was part of daily life. Today, it seemed the habit was different: getting high, getting into debt, gorging oneself.
That was the new ideal. The new leader.
Back then, the leader was the philosopher. Today, it's the trend.
"Stopping to think… Every city has its different leaders. Some were cold leaders, like Napoli Sortiana. Others, revolutionaries, like the famous Lena. And there were the monsters of history, Golf and José Açoriano. Who wrote their stories with blood instead of words." I concluded.
All authors of a story. Some are beautiful. Others are monstrous. And something they all had in common...
They mastered the authorship of a personal style.
They always said we should study history to prevent it from repeating itself...
But... What if the real danger was never history, but rather... who wrote it?
In this scenario, who should we believe, history or those who tell it?