I saw some really amazing stuff with Axl. We worked really well

The rock musician Duff McKagan, founding member of Guns N’ Roses, once said: “I saw some really amazing stuff with Axl. We worked really well together. We were good friends. And I hope to perhaps have that friendship back one day, although it’s not something I wait around for.” These words, spoken with calm honesty, carry the weight of years—of triumph, loss, and reflection. Beneath their simplicity lies the wisdom of a man who has lived through the storm of fame, ego, and art, and emerged with something rarer than glory: acceptance. McKagan’s words are not about nostalgia alone; they are about the balance between remembrance and release, and the peace that comes when one learns to honor what was without clinging to it.

The meaning of his quote flows like an old melody—gentle yet powerful. McKagan speaks of friendship not as something to be demanded, but as something to be cherished for what it once was. His acknowledgment of his bond with Axl Rose—his bandmate, collaborator, and, at times, rival—reveals a deep truth about human connection: that even the strongest bonds can fracture under the weight of ambition and time. Yet, instead of bitterness, he chooses gratitude. He recalls the “amazing stuff” they shared, the creative fire that made Guns N’ Roses more than a band, but a legend. His hope for reconciliation is humble, rooted not in entitlement but in love—a love that no longer seeks possession, only peace.

The origin of this wisdom lies in the nature of friendship itself, an ancient and sacred bond that even time cannot wholly erase. In the teachings of Aristotle, friendship was divided into three kinds: those of pleasure, of utility, and of virtue. The first two are fleeting—born of need or enjoyment—but the third endures, because it is founded on mutual respect and goodness. McKagan’s reflection belongs to this third kind. Though time and conflict have carried him and Axl down separate roads, his words show that he still honors the virtue that once united them. He does not curse the distance, for he knows that to love something truly is to allow it to change.

History, too, is rich with echoes of this truth. Consider the story of Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci, two titans of the Renaissance whose rivalry was as fierce as their genius. Though divided by pride and competition, both men, in their later years, expressed a mutual respect for each other’s art. The fires of rivalry had cooled into something quieter—recognition of shared struggle and mastery. So it is with McKagan and Axl. Their friendship, once marked by the chaos of youth, now stands as a monument to what was created in those tempestuous days: a music that transcended both their flaws and their differences.

There is also a deep emotional maturity in McKagan’s acceptance that reconciliation, though desired, is not something to be forced. “It’s not something I wait around for,” he says—and within that lies a kind of spiritual freedom. He does not cling to what might be; he honors what was. This is the wisdom of age and experience—the understanding that closure is not always reunion, and that peace comes not from rewriting the past, but from learning to live gracefully with its echoes. To wait forever is to chain oneself to the illusion of control; to release is to walk forward with dignity.

This truth applies far beyond the realm of music or fame. In every life, friendships falter, partnerships end, and once-bright connections dim. Yet we are not called to bitterness, nor to endless waiting. Like McKagan, we can choose gratitude over grief. We can look back upon shared memories—the laughter, the struggle, the creation of something larger than ourselves—and see them not as losses, but as gifts. To carry that gratitude forward is to transform pain into wisdom, and memory into strength.

The lesson, then, is one of reconciliation—not always with another, but with oneself. Honor the friendships that shaped you, even if they no longer walk beside you. Be thankful for those who helped awaken your talent, your courage, your soul. Do not demand their return; let the door remain open without expectation. For friendship, like music, is eternal in its essence, even if fleeting in form. And when you find yourself missing someone who once stood beside you in the fire, remember Duff McKagan’s quiet grace: hope without clinging, love without possession, remembrance without regret.

For in the end, the truest form of friendship is not measured by its duration, but by its impact upon the heart. When gratitude replaces longing, and peace takes the place of yearning, the soul stands free—and that freedom is the song of the wise.