Imagine. 1971. A masterpiece for music history. The soundtrack for everything. A melody that never stops resonating.
As a Beatles fan, I belong to that group of people that have been hating Yoko Ono for dragging Lennon away from the Fab Four. Yet, if it wasn’t for her, we wouldn’t have had so many of the greatest hits that were composed right after the band split up.
Is she a musician? A painter? An artist? I’ll never get that. I just know she had a deep influence on Lennon’s songwriting and music style. An influence that generated different outcomes: the banned naked pics, the acts of solidarity, the wish for a better world. Or maybe it was just love: pure, romantic, and untouchable love.
That’s an example of life becoming music, or vice versa.
Together they were oddly extravagant. Together they were unique: solid, strong, unbeatable. United.
But then someone decided that such love wasn’t to exist. Someone decided to dismantle that perfect gear, to remove all the pins to make it collapse; to add an eternal pause at the end of that wonderful pentagram.
Someone decided to pull the trigger.
This is what was supposed to happen. A disgusting and depreciable worm, a species of the lowest and most insignificant insects in the world shall take her away from you by ending your tiny life.
A fucking traitor!
Yoko wasn’t aware of that horrible plan, she was just a victim. She held John in her arms. Tight. And she would never forgive that guy, she would never accept what she’d lost from the very beginning. Loving hurts.
But theirs is just an idyllic story.
When it comes to reality and real people, she was no victim. She was the one who crafted that plan, she was his partner in crime, the one who strove to get that felony accomplished. The one who enjoyed herself while offering her mortal lips to wrap the killer’s body. The one who felt sexually and morally satisfied. She made him shoot! You fucking traitors! How good must it feel to be under the spotlight for drawing such a shamefully crafty plan? What an artist!
Nobody actually pulled the trigger. It was much easier: people don’t need a gun to place a hole in your body.
And while dying after that gunshot, your mind was just blurred, confused, glazed. You would only want to scream out loud ‘SHE’S MIIIIIIIIIIIINE!!!’
Hell, you would never let her go.
Let’s go back to the song and how amazing it is:
“Imagine there’s no heaven …
… Imagine there’s no countries …
… Imagine no possessions …“
. . .
Imagine all that past hadn’t existed and you didn’t need to pay for it.
Imagine you were smart enough not to have met her that night.
Imagine your hands weren’t shaking and you couldn’t feel her, touch her, kiss her.
Imagine you hadn’t caught that flight and rushed back into her arms.
Imagine you didn’t have to run away.
Imagine she hadn’t looked at someone else the way she looked at you.
Imagine how long you’d have lived for her.
The Britalian Post