Bring May Flowers
I gently placed yesterday’s socks on the tip top of the mountain of clothes piled up on my computer chair. I stared in agony as the month old heap of yoga pants, crew necks and cardigans tumbled to the floor. I laugh to myself thinking, “this is unreal.” I fish around my jewelry box and pull out an old stretched out hair tie. I throw my hair in a top bun and survey my studio apartment. It was a disaster. To go boxes from several bad dates and door dash leftovers littered my kitchen counter. I should really start cooking more. I have been in a three month funk since the break up with my ex of two years.
I joined countless dating apps to try and rid myself of the picture perfect memories. Those same pictures were hidden and cut up in a box under my bed. My friends would be furious to find that box but I can’t seem to toss them yet. I hear my i-Phone ring in the distance. I move a few sofa cushions and find it nestled at the bottom of my couch. It’s my mom and she wants to make dinner at my place tonight. Which really means she wants to get all in my business and make sure I’m not drowning in my own sorrow. I scroll through my other notifications:
Tinder.
Wifi bill is due soon.
Some creepy guy wants to be friends on facebook.
Tinder.
More Tinder.
I slam my phone down on my coffee table and quickly pick it back up checking for scratches. I press and hold down on the Tinder app and delete it. Bye bye. When I get in a funk like this only old soul music brings me back to earth. I switch on apple music and let the melodies take hold of me. I drag my garbage can to the middle of the floor. I grab my tv remote and begin to karaoke to the sounds of Marvin Gaye.
Ain’t no mountain high enough to make me go on another Tinder date. I toss all the old food containers in the black Hefty bag. I dance through my apartment like a hurricane picking up old mail, crumpled up notebook paper filled with wishful travel plans and empty water bottles. I fill up the can fairly quickly. I take the bag out of the can. I drop a new bag (still folded up) at the bottom of the can. Then I take another bag to actually line the garbage can with. This is a trick I learned from my mom whenever you go to change the garbage bag out, you will not have to go searching too hard or too far to find a new one. “You are assisting your future self.” She wants me to be so efficient in everything that I do. I run the garbage outside to the chute.
I separate the clothes. Whites from colors. Lights from darks. I throw a load in and leave the remaining heap to wait its turn. I scrape old ice cream from some bowls in my sinks and put them in the dishwasher. I load the rest of the dishes and press start. I wait for the first sound of the water whooshing around to make sure the cycle has begun. I Swiffer sweep my wooden floors. I fluff the pillows on my sofa. I quickly jump in the shower. I throw on a simple blue tunic dress and brush my hair into the perfect low ponytail. I look around my apartment and I am amazed. Cinderella had cleaned up just in time for the ball. For finishing touches I turned on my stove and put the fire on a low simmer. I pulled out one of my stainless steel saucepans and poured some Fabuloso cleaning solution in it. I leave it on the stove for about seven to nine minutes. The tropical spring smell danced all over my apartment. I hear a knock at my door. Its my mom holding flowers. “April showers,” she says. She looks around my apartment in disapproval. “This place is a mess.” I laugh to myself and thinking “Bring May flowers.”
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Ezomindus
In a valley where silence grew like silver grass, And the mountains seemed to hold their breath, There lived a soul whose name no map could claim—Ezomindus. He was no king of armies, no lord of stone halls, But a traveler of thought, a seeker of questions, A spark that refused to bow to fear or certainty. Ezomindus was born on a night When the moon hung low, swollen with mystery, And the wind whispered secrets through the cracks of the world. The elders, wise yet fearful, said, “This child will wander paths unknown, And his thoughts may burn like fire.” The stars, however, had their own counsel: “This child will wonder, And in his wondering, awaken others.” From his first breath, he listened—not just to people, But to the heartbeat beneath the soil, The rhythm of rivers carving their patient paths, The quiet ache of shadows folding over themselves. He heard the sorrow hidden inside laughter, The longing beneath simple words, The unspoken truths between two people’s eyes. While the villages built houses of brick and pride, Ezomindus built bridges of questions. “Why does the river never hold its shape?” he asked. “Why does the flame dance even as it dies?” “Why does the heart ache for what it cannot name?” His questions were neither rude nor loud; They were gentle arrows of thought, Piercing the illusions of routine and comfort. He wandered through forests older than memory, Where trees leaned close as if to hear him think. Roots twisted like ancient riddles, Leaves shimmered with the dust of forgotten stars. “Everything changes,” the trees whispered, “Even the one who asks.” Ezomindus was not afraid of change. He feared the stillness that numbed the mind. He saw cities wrapped in golden noise, People chasing shadows of approval, Running toward mirrors that reflected only themselves. He whispered to them softly, “Your chains are not iron—they are thoughts You never dared to examine.” Some laughed. Some scowled. Some left. A few felt something stir inside, A small trembling recognition of a mind not yet free. He carried no sword, yet battled storms of doubt. He climbed mountains that seemed to pierce the sky, Where air thinned into honesty, And only the purest thoughts could survive. At the summit, there was no throne, No crown, no prize—only a mirror of ice. In that mirror, he saw himself Not as hero nor as failure, But as a river of becoming. His courage and his fear flowed together, His wounds glimmered like constellations, His mind stretched out like the horizon itself. He understood at last: To conquer the world is smaller than conquering the mind. So he descended, carrying no gold, No trophies, no scrolls of fame, Only awareness. He spoke in marketplaces, empty fields, In the hush of midnight and the blaze of noon. “Do not fear the darkness,” he said. “It is the canvas upon which your light can paint.” As years passed, Ezomindus did not grow old in spirit. His eyes remained young with curiosity, His voice tender with truth. Children gathered around him, Drawn to the way he asked questions Instead of offering answers. “What is strength?” one child asked. He smiled and replied, “Strength is choosing truth Even when lies are easier, Even when the world calls for silence.” “What is freedom?” another asked. He touched the soil, the roots, the wind. “Freedom,” he said softly, “Is seeing your own thoughts Without becoming their prisoner.” “And what is love?” they asked. He paused, feeling the wind trace his weathered face. “Love,” he said, “Is the courage to let another soul breathe, To honor their mind as you honor your own, To walk beside them without claiming their journey.” Ezomindus became a legend, Not of battles won or lands conquered, But of minds awakened. He did not build empires of stone; He built awakenings, Invisible yet eternal, A revolution of thought, quiet yet unstoppable. When his final evening came, The sky blazed in amber farewell, And the valley seemed to lean closer in sorrow. He lay beneath the same moon That had watched his first breath. Around him stood those Who had once been lost in noise, Now awake to the rhythm of their own hearts. “Master,” they whispered, “What remains when you are gone?” Ezomindus looked at them, At their trembling hope, At their eyes opening wide to their own truths. “I remain,” he said, “In every thought you dare to examine, In every fear you face with courage, In every moment you wake instead of drift asleep.” His breath faded like a candle surrendering to dawn, Yet the valley did not grow silent. It hummed with awareness, Alive with the minds he had stirred. Ezomindus was never a body— He was a question set on fire, A space between impulse and reflection, A courage to look within. He was the whisper that said: Do not live asleep. Do not fear the depths of your own mind. For the greatest journey Is not across oceans or stars— It is through the vast, uncharted realm Of your own consciousness. Long after, children would trace his steps in the forest, Listening to the trees, to the rivers, Learning to see the unseen. They carried no scrolls, no crowns, Only the seed of questioning he had planted, A spark that refused to die. And so Ezomindus lives, Not in stone or story, But in every mind that dares to pause, Every heart that dares to reflect, Every soul that refuses to sleep While the world drifts blindly onward. For life is fleeting, And the noise of the world can drown the quiet, But the mind that awakens is eternal. Ezomindus taught this: To live is to be aware, To be aware is to be free, To be free is to walk the endless path Of truth, courage, and love. And somewhere, when the wind bends the silver grass And the moon hangs low like a question, A voice stirs inside the restless heart: “Do not live asleep. Do not fear your own depths. 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