A day of rain inside a lunchbox

A day of rain inside a lunchbox

A day of rain inside a lunchbox

rainwater, lunchbox, 2011

A lunchbox is a very practical thing. It keeps things fresh, which would otherwise rot. At least for a little longer. Things will always rot, just like rain always falls. It never really hangs still in the air or starts dancing the salsa for you, or perhaps throw out some slick moonwalks. It just falls. Like it is supposed to.

A lunchbox doesn’t think too crazy. It likes to make sure that whatever is inside doesn’t get squeezed with the rest of the world. For a lunchbox, it’s already hard enough to read a math book. Or an important work related document. Or a novel in the train. Let alone reading squashed banana’s or documents smeared with peanut butter. They don’t read well.

There is different food inside the lunchbox everyday although there is only so much you can have for lunch.

The food is like the rain. Sometimes it rains cats and dogs, and sometimes it just drizzles, and sometimes there is hail and sometimes snow, but in the end it is all just water, which does what it is supposed to: it just falls.