In my thirtieth year,

In my thirtieth year,
Time restarted. Cinders flew,
from the burning of all the past that I had tied myself up in,
blew past me as I walked,
No longer hindered,
Skin of my front slowly hardening to the chill air, skin of my back still warm.
I no longer say, hurt me.
(I may say, cause me pain.)
I no longer ask for excuses or reasons.
Instead, I seek the heart of things,
Which beats, buried, and pulses up through the seams of the earth.
I am propelled when I spread my sails,
The wind goes on when I fold them.
In my thirtieth year, time restarted.