They say souls are the cause of the shells we call bodies. They say our soul leaves our shell when the organ inside of it, called heart, ceases to beat. When the peculiar wings called lungs stop pumping air, our soul is freed from the confinements of the bone and of the skin and of the flesh, of the veins woven to fence it in.
They say the soul leaves our lifeless corpse once the heart beats its final farewell, once the lungs have squeezed their last gentle puff of breath.
Where the soul goes from it's humble abode can not be agreed upon. They say it climbs up a spiral stairway, wicked marble carved by the hands of angels, and it's purity is put to trail. They say the less fortunate souls are sentenced to an eternity of prodding from hot iron, getting charred to a crisp. Does something so intangible feel pain?
They say souls are devoured by trepidation in a place called Purgatory, a place where it's eternal destination is being mulled over in the court of the holy. All the while a pocket watch dangles by it's golden chain between a cool, pearly, paradise and an infinite, fiery, furnace. They say the soul shivers with every tick of such hands. Hands reaching out for time it will never graze, in a place where time is no more. Where only the soul exists.
They say a lot of tales concerning where the soul goes once it's carrier is declared lifeless. They have filled story books with them. Instruction manuals of salvation and damnation lay collecting dust.
But maybe they should ask not where the soul terries after death, but before life.
