Rico Lamoureux


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One of my first memories is of an illustration of a five-year-old boy playing a piano. A boy genius who lived long ago, who could compose music as if he had already lived a lifetime mastering it. And so the word genius left its permanent mark on my psyche, with thoughts of those who possessed it being of unique people doing remarkable things with their natural talent. Things that normal people could not do. Things that left such normal people like me in awe.

Indeed, geniuses like Mozart seem to have been touched by magic, as if the universe waved its miraculous wand over them right before conception. God-like power in a specific area that could enthral anyone who beheld it.

It was during childhood that I looked upon geniuses like a spectator, drawn to their tales as if they were stories of wonder. But it wasn’t until my later years when such wonder began to transform into desire. A wish to actually experience this kind of supernatural power, the want then turning into an aspiration, compelling me more and more until I had reached the dangerous level of need.

Dangerous in the sense that it started to affect my daily life. At work, on the road, anywhere really, consuming thoughts of what my exceptional gift could be drawing me further and further from the mundane life I’m so tired of living. But no matter how much I rack my brain and try new things nothing turns me into the effortless sorcerer I so desperately yearn to become, reality smacking me in the face with each new attempt as if to say I am limited, and always will be.

But it doesn’t stop the craving to want to be more, those around me using words like hard-headed and stubborn, while I prefer more positive words like driven and determined. But in the end maybe they are all just words, hanging on that dangerous edge of sanity as I come closer and closer to losing it all, each finger I use with that last tight grasp losing its grip. Job, friends, family, health. Down to the pinky but still unable to accept my limitations.

WHY?! I beg with all my being. Is it really too much to ask to be among the heavens of creation?

To soar amongst musical notes as I so brilliantly weave them together?

To strike chisel to marble and by so doing form a timeless masterpiece?

To dip a brush onto a palette of colors before stroking across a canvas the essence of humanity?

Too much to ask…?

As I reread what I’ve written, refeel the emotions evoked by these words, by my words, I ponder…

Maybe I’m not so limited.


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