Last night I saw something end that I thought would never end. I saw Ozzy, sitting like a tired king but still in love, saying goodbye to his story. And there we were, all together, saying goodbye with him.

Last night I saw something end that I thought would never end.
I saw Ozzy Osbourne—rock’s eternal rebel, the Prince of Darkness—sit like a tired king on his throne, not defeated, but weathered by time and love and music. There was something heartbreakingly majestic about it. He wasn’t the wild man of the ’70s, biting bats or howling into the chaos. He was older, quieter, but still unmistakably Ozzy. And he was saying goodbye.

It wasn’t just the end of a concert or the final song of a tour. It felt deeper than that. It was the end of an era—of seven decades that gave us some of the most defining music of rock history. It was the end of his story, told through decades of riffs, screams, and vulnerable, beautiful chaos. And last night, that story reached its final page.

He didn’t need pyrotechnics or wild antics to hold us. Just sitting there, under soft lights, he held the room in silence before speaking. His voice, worn and heavy with memory, carried a sincerity that shook us more than any thunderous guitar ever could. “I love you all,” he said. And we believed it. Not as fans needing something to believe in, but as people who had grown with him, aged with him, fought our own demons with his music as our shield.

Ozzy wasn’t just retiring from music. He was gently closing a chapter that we had all lived through, in one way or another. His journey became ours. Whether you were there for the birth of Black Sabbath or came later, drawn in by “Crazy Train” or The Osbournes, his voice was a companion through life’s dark corners and wild highs.

And so, we stood there—thousands of us—watching a legend bow out not in flames, but in peace. We weren’t just watching a man end his career. We were saying goodbye to a piece of ourselves, too. The crowd was unusually quiet, not out of boredom or disinterest, but out of respect. We all felt it: something enormous was passing. And we didn’t want to miss a second.

I saw people cry. I cried. It wasn’t just for the man, but for what he symbolized: resilience, chaos, survival, and the kind of rock and roll that doesn’t just entertain but means something. Ozzy was never just noise—he was the noise that made sense when the world didn’t.

So yes, last night I saw something end that I thought would never end.
I saw Ozzy, still in love with it all, still reaching for us as we reached for him.
And we said goodbye—not just to a man, but to a moment in music history that can never be repeated.

It was beautiful. It was heartbreaking.
It was the end.
And we were lucky to be there for it.