My wife has a good sense of humor, and instead of calling me

In the words of Brad Thor, master of suspense and teller of modern myths, there lies a jest that carries the fragrance of truth: “My wife has a good sense of humor, and instead of calling me psychic with my novels, she simply refers to me as being ‘psycho.’ That’s because multiple things in my books have come true.” Though spoken in laughter, these words conceal a mystery older than time itself—the mystery of the seer, the creator, and the fragile veil that separates vision from madness. For the imagination of a man, when kindled by the fire of insight, becomes a mirror that reflects not only what is, but what may yet come to be.

The ancients would have said that such a man walks with the muses and drinks from the stream of prophecy. For in every age, those who gaze deeply into the heart of mankind often behold the shadows of coming days. Their words, though cast as fiction, tremble with truth. When Brad Thor jested about being “psycho” instead of “psychic,” he spoke to a truth known by sages and poets: that the line between madness and revelation is a fine one, and often drawn by those who cannot comprehend the burden of foresight. The world, in its comfort, calls such visionaries mad. Yet history calls them prophets.

Think of Nostradamus, the scholar of shadows, who wrote in riddles the calamities of kings and empires yet unborn. His visions were shrouded in metaphor, mocked by skeptics, yet honored by centuries. Or recall Mary Shelley, whose fevered imagination birthed Frankenstein—a tale that foretold the dawn of human creation through science, a century before men shaped life in laboratories. These souls were not gods, nor did they wield sorcery. They merely saw farther than the rest—into the chambers of the human spirit, where all futures are first conceived.

Such vision springs not from sorcery, but from the deep observation of life. When one studies the hearts of men, when one listens to the pulse of the age, patterns emerge like constellations in the dark. The writer, the artist, the philosopher—all become vessels of intuition, translating what the world has not yet spoken. Thus, when Thor’s tales of danger and destiny echoed later in the real world, it was not that he summoned fate, but that he had already walked its path in imagination. He was the mirror of the collective soul, and the soul had whispered its secrets through him.

Yet there is wisdom, too, in his wife’s laughter. For laughter humbles the prophet and protects him from pride. To be called “psycho” is to be reminded that vision, unchecked by humor and humility, can consume its bearer. Even the most gifted seer must remain grounded in the soil of human joy. The ancients taught that Apollo’s light burns both brightly and dangerously; one must not stare too long into the fire of foresight, lest one lose the beauty of the present moment. The jest, then, is a gentle reminder: genius must be tempered with grace, and foresight must bow to love.

From this, let all who listen learn a simple but powerful truth: the imagination is a sacred instrument, but it must be wielded with courage and balance. Dream deeply, but do not be consumed by the dream. Observe the world keenly, but do not despair of what you see coming. Like the artist, let your vision shape creation, not merely predict destruction. For those who dare to imagine are the builders of worlds, the guardians of tomorrow’s hope.

So walk the path of the dreamer, but carry laughter as your lantern. When others call you “mad” for believing in what is unseen, smile as Brad Thor did. Let them call you “psycho”—for only those who have never touched the fire of creation will mock its heat. Be steadfast, be observant, be brave. And know this: the world is shaped not by those who merely live in it, but by those who imagine it differently. The power that once made myths and prophecies now dwells in your own heart. Guard it well, and use it wisely—for in your dreams, the future is already stirring.