I like to sing. I mean, who doesn’t? It’s a good time, right? You’re in your car or your shower or outside your neighbors window…um, I mean, walking outside somewhere totally unrelated to your neighbor…and you just let it go.
You’re singing at the top of your lungs. Doesn’t matter if you’re good or bad. Well, not to you, but some people probably care. But who are they anyway? So, you’re singing and singing without a care in the world.
Then, all of the sudden, you’re hit by the realization that songs throw a lot of questions out there without really providing any answers. Now, you’re carefree singing isn’t so carefree. You’re no longer just content to shout, shout and let it all out. You’re stuck thinking about what these so-called “entertainers” really mean when they say “Oops…I did it again.”
I’m confused. What did you do the first time?
Then you think:
Who did write the book of love? Do you know? I don’t, and no one seems willing to tell me.
Or:
If we didn’t start the fire, who did? And, more importantly, why?
So, next time you’re wandering along singing your little heart out riddle me this: how can it be that rock and roll is here to stay, that it will never die? Is anything truly permanent and eternal? What about the fact that someone has in fact pinpointed the day the music died? Isn’t rock and roll a type of music? Wouldn’t it already be dead then?
If you don’t know, go ask Nietzsche. He knows a lot about proclaiming important things dead…