I am an atheist, this piece is a mockery of ideas I found impossible to believe in.
Objects also have a soul, or more precisely, specific types of objects ARE souls.
I am certain of this, though I didn’t want to be “poetic” and suggest that everything is strengthened by its own history, acquiring with the passing of time a kind of “spirit”, and I am not referring to the “antique patina”, either, nor do I speak about the affection with which the owner imbues his possessions. I simply want to affirm the truth that the souls, as you all know, are unfettered from the body once it dies, persisting in reality as in imagination, and very often end up dwelling in the items that surround us.
The intellect, the memory, and all individuality remain lit, and each one will have, in the new form of existence, to bear the consequences of what has been done in this world. To each, the new form is given on the basis of what he believed. Those who believed in God, they will see their own God: Odin, Christ, Mithras, Jupiter; he who was terrified by Satan, but nevertheless acted for the worst, will meet just him, who, at the behest of the other gods, is given the care of the souls of the skeptics, the agnostics, the atheists and the materialists.
Those who do not believe in anything will be treated as if they were right, and once transformed into an object, they continue to be in the unique world in which they had faith, not having it for anyone else. Most atheists, agnostics, skeptics, and so on, end up being glasses. That is why in history there has been this great increase of production of objects, together with the spread of materialistic ideas; these are two closely related quantities.
The relation works especially with glasses. In fact, today, they are unprecedentedly numerous. The more atheists there are in the world, the more of them die, the more items will be needed to ensnare their souls. Industrial production is not a consequence of any development other than the increasing numbers of atheist dead.
They don’t just become glasses, mind you, but with different personalities, Satan can identify a couch, a car, a bed sheet, even a whole set of bedding, with some complex schizophrenic minds. However, the glass is a classic, beer or wine, tall or squat, modest for a tavern, or more elegant, a goblet, is the more consistent vessel, since everybody knows the materialist is prone to vice, to debauchery, to drinking, and is also transparent and fatuous, devoid of nerves and faith, slow on the uptake, but fragile as crystal, likewise reflecting only with pallor, crossed without effect by the divine light. Right doom!
The most important of the materialist philosophers may have the leisure to be embodied in whole barrels of distillate, dwelling in dark brooding cellars for decades; they are often barrels of Calvados, usually apple or rather pear spirits, so to recall how “pear like” was their reasoning. Once the barrel is broken and dismissed, they pass to another, there is no escape. They have the privilege, and at the same time, the punishment, to constantly smell the increasingly good aroma of the liquor without being able to drink it, not having a mouth.
The fate of the others is plain and less miserable, the one of the glasses, for example, because most of the time they are empty, and they hang sleepily from a rack, or rest on a placid shelf. For them, the memory of revelry, parties, libations, becomes unbearable only when they are used for pouring, and are filled with foam and golden liquid, intense fermented grape juice, aged malts, ciders, liqueurs and such company.
From wherever they are placed, deep cellars, or wine bars, modest houses, mansions or pubs, each glass with his occasional clink, and the grumbling of his short crystal clear voice made of waves, wants to warn the drinker of the fate that awaits him: “stop drinking and carousing, you fools, change ideas about life, think about the future, be pious, or you’ll be trapped, like me, here, in the glass, forever, unable to get out.” Nothing! No effect. The laughter of fools overwhelms everything and everyone in their inveterate and superficial distraction.
If, after having abused drinking profusely, however, you fill a glass with water halfway and wet the top edge, when you pass a moistened finger around the rim, the glass will speak to you, with a loud ghostly “u”, like a Theremin, or sounding, in its high-pitched complaint, like a 33 vinyl record turned by hand; and you can listen, but you have to be really drunk to understand: “here I am-here-that-I-lament-my-wicked-life…”
They do everything possible to kill themselves, poor things, and that’s why they break so frequently. The intensity of their distress builds into a strange migraine without brain, they sweat, they vibrate, vibrate, vibrate, until they suddenly break; especially in the presence of a soprano, they seize the opportunity to shatter, or when they can, unseen, move just enough to be bumped by an elbow and fall; but it is no use, when they break, they go directly to another brand new and packed goblet, ready to be shipped to the department store.
Remember, readers, that you never purchase simple glasses, but entire sets of arrogant and depraved souls. And you do not really drink from a goblet, but metaphorically, each time, you drink from a skull, the skull of an atheist, and indeed, in your hand you hold, sip by sip, an ectoplasm, a ghost.