So bleak, the revelation

I came to a solid conclusion this evening:
I've set unrealistic goals for myself and they are bringing me down.

In perusing the scraps of information I have concerning my future, I'm constantly gripped with a paralyzing sense of suspension.
It's like I'm dangling in some transparent vacuum space above and between all that I want to be and do, and yet without ground or walls off of which to propel myself I am left to unceremoniously look at everything I hope for without any conceivable momentum toward its obtainment.

One would think that making this statement about my own future would damn me to a self-induced sense of victimhood, and yet that's just the answer.
I would be the cause of it.
In this same vein of thought and flow of logic it would only be sensible to think that I could just as easily be the cause of my own success, of my own attaining of high merit, my own victory.

I long for championship.

And now, as my own propellant I can release myself from the arbitrary bonds of flawed plans rife with expectation and obligation.
I can be free to redefine my goals and ultimately myself.

This is a time for shaping and shaving.
Chipping away the larger portions of my accrued worry and self-doubt, I'll then begin to sand my new shape into smooth satisfaction by means of the sanding of flexibility and will to accept all that is unchangeable and a hope to discover just what can be altered.

Limits only exist where failure is perceived.

That's my new maxim.
Get it tattooed.
Just credit me.