The ignorance of self I have conquered.
The blindness to others, having been worn down over the years, finally is no more than a bloody heap.
Mastery of the physical took no more effort than would a cheap parlor trick, for the body has always been a slave to the will.
I can see far temporally, my tinted glasses easily malleable, my solid obstacles removed.
All save one.

I raise a shield of logic, a shield of love; I fend off a blow.
But it shouts, it teases, it taunts.
"You cannot control me! I am a part of you!"
"So were they," I grumble, and make a half-blind thrust with a rapier formed of will.
For all of its mass, it dances lightly aside, and I hit the ground painfully.
"Touchè!" it cries, lunging for my heart, but I roll and take the poisoned blade in my side.
And I despair. Not from the many wounds; they will heal, given time. But because this final battle will never end. I cannot destroy the flaw... it will not destroy me. All I can hope for is a better life, in which the fight will no longer be necessary, but that hope is bleak.
Obstacles and imperfections (as seen through my current glasses, admittedly) may come, but I dispatch them with ease.
All save one.