VIII. World’s Okayest Prophet.

There’s a dangerous logic to potential.

It flatters,

then haunts.

A terribly well-mannered foe,

never arrives uninvited,

but sulks magnificently when ignored.

Whispers that the line between obscurity and brilliance

isn’t fate.

It’s discipline.

Timing.

The stamina to sit still long enough

for genius to finish its cigarette and speak to you.

And I can sit still.

God, can I sit.

I’ve stared down blank pages until they stared back,

mocking.

Until the margins grew smug,

and the silence between the lines got personal.

Not writer’s block.

This was a standoff.

But that kind of tension?

That’s the early hum of something worth saying.

Or so I choose to believe.

People call it procrastination.

I call it precomposition.

Not laziness.

Reverence.

A cathedral built from side-eyes and spiraling thoughts.

Some small, stubborn part of me insists

that if you remain,

truly remain,

something will come.

Maybe not brilliance.

But something.

A line.

A breath of truth.

And if someone else could carve immortality out of silence—

then sure,

I could have painted the Mona Lisa.

I mean, what is the Mona Lisa, really?

A woman.

A backdrop.

A whisper of ennui rendered in oil.

I’ve encountered all three on the subway.

The painting is thirty inches of canvas

and centuries of mystique.

Which is exactly how I feel

on a Tuesday

in a good coat.

Let’s be honest.

I’ve seen women.

I’ve seen backgrounds.

I am a woman who’s exuded multiple vibes.

All I’d need is a brush.

Some paint.

A canvas.

Sixteen years of training.

A bit of divine intervention.

Definitely an arch-nemesis.

Maybe a scandal.

Art history loves a scandal.

Picture it:

Me, in a threadbare robe,

hunched over a canvas by candlelight,

muttering, “It’s the eyes that lie, not the smile,”

while sipping wine from a chipped mug labeled

World’s Okayest Prophet.

Somewhere, offstage,

a cello moaning something Italian.

That’s not drama.

That’s method.

Don’t get me wrong.

Da Vinci was brilliant.

But he was also, in truth,

a man with access to pigment

and uninterrupted hours.

He kept a journal full of birds.

I collect my own obsessions.

My phone is full of voice notes.

One is titled “Pigeon Theory.”

Another is just me muttering,

“They know too much.”

If anything, I’m ahead.

He was human.

I am human.

He had thoughts.

I, too, have thoughts.

Often five at a time.

Minimum.

Still counts.

That’s multitasking.

That’s evolution.

He painted with oils.

I moisturize with them.

He dreamed up flying machines.

I rearranged my living room

after a dream about Fibonacci.

He apprenticed under Verrocchio.

I was formed by targeted algorithms

and the introversion of a Victorian ghost cat.

Brilliance is a lineage.

Sometimes a very indirect one.

Hereditary only if you believe in reincarnation.

So I sit.

And wait.

For something half-formed and half-forgotten,

for the idea that resists just enough

to be worthy of pursuit.

It’s a private joke

you get to be in on.

A threadbare robe.

A chipped mug.

And the quiet, electric feeling

that maybe, just maybe,

you’re already holding the brush.

So when the Louvre calls,

I might let it ring.

Not because I’m busy,

though I might be.

Not because I need their validation.

Please.

I already know what I’m worth.

The knowledge that I could answer,

and might choose not to,

is its own masterpiece.

The point isn’t the phone call.

The point is that whatever spark made Da Vinci a legend

is still alive in all of us.

Sometimes dim.

Sometimes strange.

Sometimes disguised

as a phone full of voice notes about pigeons.

And prophets,

even the okayest, best moisturized ones,

have always known:

It was never about being chosen.

It’s about choosing to see.

About having the nerve

to revere what’s already there.

And looking boredom dead in the eyes until it blinks first.

For what it’s worth,

-Charlene Iris

One thought at a time.

One truth at a time. 

Because some epiphanies stay with you.