There is no correct amount of chocolate. There is only the moment it stops tasting like something and starts becoming something you are doing while you are thinking about something else.
I have noticed that when things feel heavy, I do not really eat chocolate. I disappear into it a bit. It becomes less about flavour and more about filling a gap that does not actually live in the stomach. It is strange how quickly something simple can turn into a kind of quiet background noise.
The first few pieces are always honest. After that it can start to shift. Not in a dramatic way, just a slow drift away from enjoyment and into autopilot. That is usually where it stops being useful, not because of sugar or health or rules, but because attention has left the room.
On good days it is different. A small piece is enough. It is noticed. It has edges. There is a decision in it. On harder days it is more like something is trying to gently keep the system from collapsing in on itself, and it will use whatever is nearby.
I do not think the answer is to control it more tightly. That usually just adds another layer of tension. It is more like noticing when something has stopped being an experience and has become a blur, and then quietly changing one small thing in the room so the blur has to rearrange itself slightly.
Sometimes that is putting the packet away. Sometimes it is going outside for a minute. Sometimes it is just sitting there and realising I am not actually tasting anything anymore.
It is never really about chocolate. It is about whether I am still here while I am doing it.
Kids Book Illustrator Andy C Marshall 