Born of Magic Soup

Myth makes us.

If I believe that, despite impossible odds, I can win the lottery, I will pay hard-earned money for a disposable slip of paper (assuming that is, that I see winning the lottery as a good thing.)

If I believe that the changing of a particular date holds a special annual meaning, ringing in renewal, I will probably go celebrate at a New Year's Eve party.

If I believe that everybody has a soulmate, I'll likely seek one out with a certain desperation.

And, if I believe that I popped from a vat of magic soup, I'll likely act as if I'm made of magic, as if the universe picked me based on my special qualities, that no one and no thing, save the soup, holds authority over me.

What happens then, when a man discovers that the soup was brewed in the mind of a deceiver, that its master wants your worship, that the soup has meaning, but in the real, scientific-historic course of mankind's era, that, in fact...

...there is no soup?