The issue is of caliber. My perception is hyper-critical perhaps, but it is through this attitude that I find resonance in any worthwhile action. Is that to say that I'm without fault? Of course not. I am the greatest violator of my own standards, though I always intend to produce the best. My hypocrisy is maddening and renders me impotent. One day I will think myself a genius, and the next I am the lowliest scum to have ever been born. Curse this plague; I wish I were a simpleton.

My craft is the pen, or so I imagine. The pen is a cruel master, it commands my attention, and when I finally believe myself productive, it laughs at my work and forces me to begin again. I cannot progress until the words are correct. Revision is my deadliest friend.

How to execute the unattainable sword swing? Such a feat would be on par with the transmutation of mental sludge to omniscience.