I've been thinking this a while and I can't disguise it anymore - I'm trying to keep it under control but it's not easy when I feel like this...

My name is Paul and I'm a wordaholic, a compulsive and obsessive addict and because of this I can't stop using Prose. :D

I love this place, I love the app, the people I've met and those who inspire me, I love the ethos here, the art, the challenges and the fact that we are all growing together.

So there I said it, I confess. But....

Is this normal...

Should I worry.... ?

(ps. help!)

A symphony of sleeting flakes danced to life the music of an outside world demanding love. The scene became a single sheet of music; chiming and thrashing its mischievous monologue and yet with no partner to play along with.

Except this sheet of music was green and the myriad of music notes here were whiter than the purest salts. Charlottes' childlike eyes grew wide and glistened the ghostly glow of dusk enveloped by many thick layers of another lonely winter. Her second winter at the manor house.

She stood in the alcove accompanied only by two claret red curtains and separated from her wonderment by a sheet of glass and her husbands instructions. These two hand crafted cotton curtains were finished with silk tassels and set in the same tint of golden yellow matching the heavy rope that fastened each drape.

Charlotte had chosen them the month prior; these luxurious fabric gates to a world she had sworn to surrender and now regretted. Natures bright beautiful scene burnt deeply into her mind, perhaps to save and recall at some later time. She did this often in the past, as way of subduing the sadness of her divorce from freedom, an event which coincided with the marriage to new husband; Her wealthy yet possessive husband.

The alluring whirlwind of melodies whipping over the lawn could only be partially assembled as her knowledge of reading music was still in its infancy, yet she looked on and thought things over again. She'd yearned for the life she had now since a young age but had not had the foresight to anticipate how it might be coupled with stifling restrictions to her deeper passions. The influence permitted now was solely in choosing the palette that painted the gates adorning the road that pointed to her freedom, and her lifelong passion.

The present situation had troubled her for many months now and her longing and yearning to listen to and perform music was driving her to distraction.

"Mrs. Tailor ..." Her butler had entered silently behind her. "Uh, might there be some small service that my lady might require? For it is my observation that dinner this evening fails to capture my lady's interest... If you pardon my saying,"

"No Harry," She returned gently without turning to face her servant or the now ice cold offering of lamb chops, swede and potatoes.

"Thank you kindly... And yet I am rather tired, of waiting for my husband this evening."

"Yes my Lady,"

"I shall retire to my chamber for now and awake a pianist - and that Henry... shall be THAT!"

Her words rang with a clarity and a sense of triumph that both parties once knew well and yet also knew very well had now spelt a looming mountain of trouble. They laughed anyway.

The laughter receded into two beaming and authentic smiles, and these smiles receded into that moment akin to peering into each others purest soul. They recognised something, it was clear to them both, and it was then that some dangerous affection had deeply rooted itself.

Charlotte then turned and drew to close the heavy curtains which stole from them both the music from winters window and began soft delicate steps toward the door. She paused beside her butler and exchanged a glance which each knew would outlive the night.

"Good Evening Henry," She whispered threading the words onto a skipped heartbeat they both secretly intended to return to.

"Be sure to relay my apologies to Mr. Tailor when he chooses to RETURN," She called out loudly from the hallway, halfway up the stairs.

"But of course," Henry replied. His formal nod designed to disguise the thrill of fresh attraction, but fatally betrayed by the windows through which his heart and soul peered outward.

by Paul David B.

https://theprose.com/post/21055/Moving-Through-Walls

... For inspiring messages and comments of support and encouragement recently, specifically on my latest story 'Moving Through Walls' - (link above) It really does mean a great deal to me.

Art is only art because of an audience; an audience of one or more, not excluding anyone.

Anyway, a small message of big thanks today, London says Hi !

Now, tell me YOUR stories, I'm listening...

Is it possible to fall for

someone you haven't seen -

whose image is confined

to pixels on a screen?

Is it possible to be

captured and taken in

by photos, emails and

video messaging?

Is it possible from this

to obsess and over think -

the idea of meeting

this someone for a drink?

Is it possible from this

to wander into foreign space

transform it all into

your familiar place?

Is it possible like this

to offer up a question

that inspires an idea

like divine suggestion?

Is it possible like this

to set off a single spark

that reaches over oceans

regardless of the dark,

that reaches through time,

regardless of distance apart,

that reaches across space,

regardless of end or start,

that reaches around us,

just to have a heart to heart?

Is it possible like this

to set a precedent here

spell out a sign that

echoes long and clear -

maybe it's not impossible

to make a life of meaning, when

you share it with someone

who actually cares, once again.

Word Order by Paul David B.

Half sapphire

half emerald

on a velvet

diamond carpet

levitating lantern

no hidden strings

motherly supportive

selflessly sings

nurturing rhythms

of optimisms

refracting waves

of silent aphorisms

passionate

brave dancer

has started

waiting not

for music

nor permission

leading an

enchanting

invitation

to behold her

naked truth

is a vision

"Hi, I'm a street poet," he said.

Big smile arrived on his face whilst matching my brisk strides; He followed, I led.

Outside Shoreditch High Street station and I guess his business was the busking kind. Through unwelcome communication, this assumption was soon affirmed,

he wasn't my friend but friendly

so far, then it turned...

We turned a sharp left, he walked on my right side. He was tall, odd, shifty and sticking to me tight.

"It's nice to meet nice people tonight." I issued my final glance of goodbye on a wet Tuesday night.

I sought #BoxedIn the free event for poets and thought to invite him but something wasn't right.

"Pick a subject, any subject and I'll tell you a poem,"

"How about I do one for you? I'm pretty broke too - anyway no change, only card. You know? - Beep, beep! That kind of thing..."

"That's OK, I accept card too! There's a cash machine nearby..."

"What makes you think I have a card?" I stopped dead, finding my target in his left eye.

"You just TOLD me so!" was his reply.

"Yes. An Oyster card, for tra-vel-ing."

"Oh you're a COMEDIAN!!!"

"I accept card...?" I laughed.

(You think I was too harsh?)