The Flame of Olympic Torch

I watch. I observe. I ache.
I grow.
I grow up.
I grow old.
I watch. I observe. I ache.

Life repeats itself for centuries.

And as the new generation is trying to catch a mad genius desease, desparate, manic, mad, angry - the old generation is too desparate not to loose that desease, also manic, mad, angry.

Painful experience of being alive, craving religion, art - the proof of life.

Something's wrong here. A link is missing. A logical connection between generations.

And from a distance they watch the youngesters in agony, catching themselves on fire. They wont come close because this new younger faces are too loud, too mouthy, too angry, too happy then they remember themselves back then.

The youth is drowning, incapable to capture their own existance.

The elders become so tragically mellodramatic that Greek Gods themselves could have borrowed ideas to write their myths and pass them on for centures to come.

Confused, I scratch my head tuning into the lyrics trying to capture the message from Gods of Rock-n-Roll. Devoted, I listen to Kurt Cobain refusing to believe that he wrote those songs while being high on drugs.

I'm writing, wondering if Rock was a result of epiphany or extasy.