W.S. George
writer composer

The Death of Princeford

It was never my intention to make this website a public journal. I've long given that up for more private, undisturbed existence.

Nearly a year ago I let myself slip out of popular thought to settle on the margins, observing all that has transpired, to make sense of what is, what used to be and what must come to pass.

Naturally, I've thrown off a lot of the social shackles that kept me tied up with the ebb and flow of the everyday. Though, work forces me to maintain certain acquaintances, I do my best to keep everyone else at bay, like a dam holding back a river.

Being out of the loop has helped me gather the bits of myself scattered throughout the previous years. I've managed, with limited success to stitch together a self-consistent fabric as close to the original. It's a noble attempt to salvage myself from society's ceaseless, senseless stride towards tomorrow. In doing so, a lot of what seems unimportant has been discarded.

I've allowed my memory to decay with good intention. Half of life must be forgotten, if progress is to be made. Progress, for any one, makes victims of the innocent. And when, like me, you are consumed with the writing on the wall of your dim lit grotto, a sort of righteous selfishness seizes you and all else becomes utterly worthless. Collateral damage.

You pay what you have sacrificed no second thought until you sit there, recuperating from the effort of the ceremony, and stare into the holocaust.

When I looked, I saw that vicious smile, those eyes that knew it all. I saw that caustic tongue caged. I saw the hands bound in mock prayer, or anticipation of something awe-ful.

The flames; they have eaten his lips. Now Princeford's grin is perpetual. His eyes are windows into the vacancy his soul left. His bony hands will never write again. He will never call my name.

I learned of Princeford Agudzeamegah's death four days after he was buried. Not that I would have gone for his funeral, no. I am too selfish to do that. I spoke to him once, last year (or was it this?) on WhatsApp. It was a short conversation. He chatted like an old man who had forgotten half the friends he knew in his youth. The decay of memory was mutual, apparently.

We talked a little about old times. We didn't share hopes of stories to be written, plays to be staged. The conversation was static as I remember it. He seemed - busy. It was a short, rather insignificant moment.

He said something about being in a hurry, having to do something so we'll talk later. For someone who will die at twenty-six, he certainly was in a hurry to get it all done with.

I shouldn't feel bad that my self-imposed exile from all things popular ostracized Princeford. Look at him now: he has this whole world dancing in the fire of his altar. Maybe he is in a hurry still; busy with, God bless him, otherworldly business.

He is dead on this side of fact. It is a great opportunity to now achieve fame the way most great artists did. Did he leave enough words to sustain our desire to know him?

I cannot answer that.


© 2017 William Saint George