Last night, I saw something end that I thought would never end.
I saw Ozzy Osbourne—seated like a tired king, fragile yet fierce, still in love with every scream, every riff, every beat—say goodbye to the story that made us all. And we were there with him, thousands of us, not just watching but living that goodbye. Together.
*Back to the Beginning* wasn’t just a concert. It was a homecoming, a pilgrimage, a remembering. Those opening notes didn’t just fill the air—they cracked open memories, flooded our hearts, pulled us back to who we were when we first heard them. The riffs of Tony Iommi, the thunder of Geezer Butler, the pulse of Bill Ward—these weren’t just sounds. They were battle cries. And Ozzy’s voice, weathered but eternal, felt like a prayer whispered into the chaos.
Those songs—*I Don’t Know*, *Crazy Train*, *Iron Man*, *Paranoid*—they weren’t played. They were lived. Again. One last time. And somehow, in the roar of *War Pigs* and the ache of *Mama, I’m Coming Home*, we weren’t just saying goodbye to a band. We were saying goodbye to part of ourselves.
But what a goodbye it was. Not a tearful surrender, but a joyful, defiant celebration. A salute to everything loud, raw, broken, and beautiful.
And in that final moment—when the lights dimmed and the echoes faded—it didn’t feel like an ending. It felt like a promise.
A promise that this music, this madness, this love—it doesn’t die.
It lives in our bones.
It screams in our silence.
And even now, as the stage goes quiet, it whispers:
I will
love you forever.
