Do you ever wonder about how the chocolate bar comes into existence? Its birth is a revelation for the adorers, the transformation of an obscure bean in some remote forest of the world to a smooth – or chunky, depending on which side you follow – slab of deliciousness in your hands. Bar upon bar of lovely temptingness on the shelves of the supermarket all clamouring aloud to the worshipper within you. You hover, you wait, you pick, you choose. 

You take it home, handling it carefully lest it melt, its virtue fading away without having blessed you. When the need hits you, when you want to turn to a force with the power to wipe out your blues, when you want the world and its dog to drift away into oblivion, you find a quiet corner, unwrap the shiny coverings and bite into the oozy goodness, never mind the sticky fingers and the messy prints on your face – what God after all would not want to leave His trace on you? You see someone coming and you hide; they can pray and do penance on their own time, for this piece of heaven is too personal to share.

And then you return, regularly, unerringly, to the fold of the God you have chosen. Converts made in a day, after all, need more than just a fiery speech. They have to be wooed and wheedled each time.

The naysayers and the nonbelievers will scoff at your imagery.  They see only an edible product going into a whizzing, shining, steel machine and coming out a liquid mess, brown or white or any shade in between, to be molded and shaped and eaten at will.

Let them scoff. If you had a life so short, wouldn’t you want it to be as sweet?


P.S. Inspired by

Thinking about the Bourneville tagline and the Dairy Milk adverts helped this along.