The memory lingers on my mind, and brings with it the warmth of a happy buzz. I can feel my lips twitching, and there it is. I’m smiling ear to ear, thinking of all the moments we’ve spent together, Old Monk. Just you, me and the bittersweet winter season.
Old Monk, Je t’aime.
I still remember the first time you and I made our acquaintance. We were at a party, and the winter air was crisp and chilly. I wasn’t having too much fun, and was waiting to get home. But call it a cosmic intervention, you made your entry. And Coke hasn’t been the same since.
From falling in love to heartbreaks galore; from a laidback girls-night to drunken revelry with my childhood friends; from loner Fridays to philosophical Monday musings– you’ve seen it all, you’ve been there through it all and you’ve understood.
It’s indescribable, the smooth buzz you cast on me like a spell. When I’m with you, I feel light. I feel happy. I feel like I could sing. Like I could dance, tap my feet a bit. I feel free, I feel fierce. You come with a festive spirit either just by yourself, or get the happy cola along. You never judge me, even when I am broke – you’re there beside me. And I think the non-judgemental vibe between us is so great. No frills, no cosmetic lifts needed. You’re great just as you are. That’s what I love about you – you’re so assured in your own way, you don’t need to talk about yourself all the time, never advertising your worth.
I know there are many more who claim to be your true lovers. Who can blame them? For you – Old Monk – have that pull. You’re known to cast your spell on anyone who’s lucky to be around, partaking in all your gifts one winter season after another, one college rite of passage to another and so on. So it’s only fair that you have a cult following of your own. And am I the jealous one? Maybe. But it’s alright I guess, maybe this is my way of adoring you – enjoying that everyone thinks that you’re so great.
To imagine a world without you, is to feel a giant void in my existence. Indeed, it’s like asking my existential crisis to exacerbate on its own. I wouldn’t even have it in me to write a ballad for you, for who will I sing it to, if you’re not around? To think of a winter without you, makes me want to cry. It’s not the same, it never can be.
You’ve always been there for giving me your wisdom, much like the all-weather companion I always wanted. You make no fuss about anything, you just ‘go with everything’. What more can I ask for, except that you stay this way with me forever?
And this is how I feel, about you.
Old Monk, Je t’aime.
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