Late blooming

I have come so late to myself. So much later than most. But in order to get there, I needed to know that I was never there. Never. It hits me at 35,000 feet listening to Chopin. A nocturne if you must know. The past hurtles towards me and it is dark and unknown. All the injuries I would prefer to ignore, insist on presenting themselves. Everything I did not understand comes unraveled in front of me. Only in that state of undress do I dare proceed.  Everything must go. The past, the present, the future. Everything once known must become unknown. Who once was is no more. It is the call I have been waiting for. The call I have made to myself. That I have been reluctant to answer. Because how do you really start over again? How do you leave behind the familiar negative?  The awfulness that is second nature to you, but is all that you know. I did an apprenticeship in it.  I could teach it if I chose, but I do not care to venture with others into those waters. Dark and daring you to drink. One swallow and  Lethe-like,  all forgotten. No, I will not drink. I will remember. I will come late, but not unbidden.