Saturday, April 19, 2008

Me and My Chocolate Factory

Five years after I became a part of my once “chocolate factory”, I was given another chance to set foot in it again, not as wide-eyed trainee or as a hopeful insider wannabe (as it was a few years back), but as a relaxed guest (who was there for some sort of a business).

I can’t find a better way to place it. Relaxed guest.

The phrase I just used to refer to me and my role in my “chocolate factory” kind of takes the pressure off where the weight of wanting to be there is concerned. I mean, stepping in that realm this time around was more worry-free than it was five years ago, where I was on constant guard to impress people in the hopes of earning a commendable rating and more, and it is definitely less stressful than it was probably three years ago when I took some serious time to consider how badly I wanted my chocolate.

“Chocolate,” a good friend calls it. That thing that gives you satisfaction over and over again. That thing which you can never be sick of. That thing that gives you a reason to smile, the type of smile that comes from inside you.

I found my chocolate in 2003 when I was given the chance to live my dream one summer. Or so I think.

But reality had to happen. It required me to live responsibly and make my choices well. Whatever that means. I wonder if it’s growing-up which I have to blame. Why I ended up fixated to security and even stability. Why I strayed. Why I lost my chocolate.

Why my chocolate lost me.

Days when I wonder what in the world am I doing with a chocolate-less life come. More often than I would have preferred. And then it will dawn unto me that my inner smile has faded. Thus the search.

“Chocolate factory,” I call it. The place where one’s chocolate comes from. The generator of unending and unconditional satisfaction, enthusiasm and inner happiness.

In the vast sea of responsibilities, financial struggles, familial duties and easy attempts for laughs, my chocolate factory slowly vanished. I’ve tried and I’ve been trying but I can hardly find it. At least the one which will tirelessly supply me with the dose of chocolates I would need for my lifetime.

But as much as my “chocolate factory” five years ago reminded me of what-could-be-my-chocolate-factory-now, there’s one thing I realize: Things will be better if I do not have to turn some place or to someone to get my chocolate. I just have to turn to myself. I can be my own cocoa-maker!

My chocolate comes in small doses now. A day’s a lucky one if I get a piece. But, I guess, that’s how it will be for a while. Until I convince myself to become a choc-autotroph.

Who knows? I may soon do something right. I may end up being my own chocolate factory—that is, speaking in the Wonka proportions!

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