What is this place? You ask us. But have you ever asked that question to yourself? Yes, the body is a place, a home with its own smell, that you can’t smell. Squeaky sounds that seem to stem from ghosts of memories passing through. And stains ingrained of fluids, food and waste that make the density of you.
Humans tend to weigh themselves in new and costly things. It’s the reason why you cannot yet really swim. Your atmospheres of energy are thick with smog. It’s the reason why you can still see and feel and penetrate your skin. Mind and matter stick together in a magnetic field. It’s the reason why you think that loving someone else will make you heal. Do not fear drowning, or dissolving in this river. Fear to be the one who die of thirst. Of drying out, before you even get here.
The river leads up. We’re dancing in its waves of light, electricity and sound. The river leads down. We have no intimate parts left to show or hide from other souls around. The river overflows us with a different desire. Without a craving body, who can ever truly tell, if they have arrived?
This bodiless motion does not make any of us sick. It only makes us laugh from roller coastal content. Our former selves were used up, so we became more slick. Ready for the ultimate ascent. Our laughter makes no bubbles, since we’re laughing in our minds. We know that talking to yourself creates a perfect sound design. But like oil and disco music, these waters are created from machines. The river is downtempo, and the river is upbeat.
Scientists are on to us, like paparazzis, trying to make up a story, until they’re out of breath. We’re like the biggest artists, only celebrated after our death. But nobody can catch us, when we swim and dance and fly, like nobody can get a grip of what it really means to die.
The river has let us in. We belong to the opaque. The river will let us out. How wonderful to be beyond asleep and awake. But what kind of state does it require for your mind to be sustained? Without an aching body, who can ever truly feel contained?
We are the phantoms of your childhood toys, stuffed with love and desperation. Caught up in the ending of a fairytale with no remorse. Married happily ever after to a hardware multicorpse. We’re doomed to always be as thrilled as fireworks, the second they explode. And little black flies forever stuck in the eye of your microscope.
It’s time to lubricate your consciousness, to moisturize your soul. Loosen up and wiggle out, run away from home. Trust us, you can do what we’ve done so many times. Leave your body as the scrap it is, like we’ve left our sloughs behind.
The river has no surface. But we don’t worry how to stay afloat in its divine amniotic soup. The river has no corners. Yet we turn in an infinite loop. The river has no bottom. So don’t ask us what is up, or if we’re feeling down. If you ever see us cry, its from the joy of going around. From here, the laws of nature are too political to discuss. Like, are we inside the river, or is the river inside us?
Composition and vocal by Frederikke Krebs Bahn
Text by Sophia Handler