Reincarnation Kit
It's not here to fix anything.
It's here to sit beside the unfixable.
To remind you that identity is porous, ego
dissolves,
and you're already reincarnating -
bit by bit, breath by breath, spore by spore,
in directions you can't predict.
This is for those who miss something they can't
name.
A myth you don't need to believe in for it to work.
A ritual for grief, yes - but also for shapeshifting.
For myth-making without explanation.
For remembering that form is negotiable.
That you were never meant to stay one thing
forever.
It doesn't do anything obvious. It is nonsense.
Which is exactly why it might work.
A ritual box. A vessel for gestures older than
words.
Language before language. Before religion. Before
metaphor.
Before belief.
You open it - and it doesn't guide you.
It just sits there. Quietly. Waiting to become
something with you.
A whisper. A touch. A tear.
The gesture becomes the story.
You don't prove it. You perform it.
Like a myth - it works not by being understood,
but by being done.
It offers no answers - only a place to remember
what you already know, but forgot how to say.
This isn't a metaphor.
It's a symbolic technology.
Like fire. Or burial. Or naming something for the
first time.
It's a silent rebellion -
against productivity, clean explanations, artificial
separation.
It doesn't shout. It doesn't explain.
It just makes space for what's already leaking
through you.
Inviting you to become something
you've already been a thousand times before.
This is a speculative, ritual-based part of coming bigger exhibition exploring grief, interspecies connection, and posthuman mythologies through microbial collaboration.
Here, with Reincarnation Kit we invite you to step into a quiet, living ritual —
a space where death is not hidden,
where mystery is not solved,
and where transformation is witnessed, not explained.
The Reincarnation Kit is one part of this larger ecosystem —
a sincere, open-ended act of radical communication.
It was born from the desire to speak to the dead —
not metaphorically, but materially.
Soil from a burial site. A swab from the living.
Both placed in a shared dish,
allowed to grow.
Not just a Petri dish, but a reunion space.
A last supper.
A first supper.
A microbial supper.
What happens between them cannot be fully known.
And maybe that’s the point.
This is neither a scientific procedure nor a work of fiction —
and yet, it’s also both.
A vessel for remembrance,
for wondering,
for beginning again.
The Reincarnation Kit is not a gimmick.
It’s a sincere invitation.
And it’s a field of entrances,
where myth, grief, biology, and play are allowed to entangle.