Who am I if I'm Not Myself?

And if I find of late that I am one such coward, what then? Shall I bury myself beneath the iniquities of my own shortcomings? If I taste the bitterness of complacency, should I capitulate before the liberation of my mind? Perhaps I should.

My position is pitiable - for all my claims of daring, for all my wishes of adventure and gallantry, I have not the conviction to see them through. The very thought of fulfilling my greatest desires leaves me trembling.

Is this what life is? To be forever confined, forsaken from our most grand of dreams?

There is no oppressor but him of my own making. Nothing tangible arises to lambast my path, to preclude my intrepidity. Why, then, do I shrink as if the hand of death is upon me?

And who am I if I'm not myself?