Happy Birthday, John Lennon.

You were such a curious creature.
I regret that I never met you, that I never saw your boyish smile in person or stood in a crowd to hear you sing in that way that I've always admired, like you were unaware that anyone was listening to you.
I've always had the idea that you were too good for this earth- too beautiful and real and pure, made of stardust or something, made of the universe. You were love in its purest form, an unadulterated piece of the beauty of the human spirit. You were otherworldly. That's why you left so soon, because this world wasn't for you. You were needed elsewhere, among the stars where you were made. Had you stayed any longer you would have lost your magic, the glow of the extraterrestrial matter with which you were made would have dimmed and slowly died, leaving you as a shell of a mythical creature,a meteorite in a science museum, a dead light bulb. You would have been old and sad and the world would have turned it's loving eye toward someone else. You would have be vaguely remembered and revered with uncertainty as a relic of some sacred time when music was more real, more true.
I wonder, did you know how magical you were? Did you understand why girls screamed at you everywhere you went? Did you understand how deeply you were loved? I wonder, what did you think of your fame? Did it embarrass you or were you unaware of it, having never noticed anything had changed? Maybe, through your eyes, the world seemed different, more awesome, more inspiring. Maybe you understood something the rest of us never will.
Maybe you're out there singing and laughing among the planets and stars, with your guitar and your glasses, orbiting around the earth, smiling in childish wonder of the view.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.