The Spawn of the Swinging Sixties Chapter Thirteen Of All Sad Words of Tongue or Pen

Chapter Thirteen  Of All Sad Words of Tongue or Pen

The first employment I undertook after leaving Leftfield was as a wandering deliverer of novelty telegrams. It may be that I gave no serious thought to the future, because I didn't seriously intend having one. My life's work was apparently the pursuit of immortality through acting, music or literature, or ideally all three, while tasting as many earthly fruits, strong sensations, and extreme experiences as I was able to in the interim. I evidently had no deep desire to leave anything behind by way of progeny, nor for any career other than one liable to project me to international fame. That said, in keeping with my then passionately felt liberal-left convictions, I did vaguely entertain the thought of an alternative career in one or other of the caring professions. I struggle to adequately explain why I was quite so reckless with the many gifts heredity and good fortune had bestowed upon me, as I'm such a different person today, and one who honours and cherishes everything that contributes to the well-being of the individual in society, from the family onwards. It may be that I was in the grip of a condition of which sudden inexplicable recklessness was a primary symptom, because it would be inaccurate to state that I was unvaryingly reckless. In fact, I was capable of great diligence, especially when it came to my acting career, only for the recklessness to return. What is certain is that whatever I was in thrall to has been significantly tamed by my faith, offering me the chance to revisit my younger days with an eye rendered mournful and wise by bitter regret, as well as the gift of hope for the future, which my folly almost deprived me of permanently. God's offered me a second act, during which I might go some way towards repairing some of the damage I caused during the first, so that one day those terrible words contained in Maud Muller by the American Quaker poet John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892) might not burn themselves too savagely into my soul:
“For of all sad words of tongue or pen
The saddest are these: ‘it might have been!’”