Transit Thoughts – 12.2.25

Today I watched a mundane scene of my depression unfold behind the counter at Juice Generation: a young worker, completely absorbed in the creation of my smoothie (one of those corporate, A/B-tested blends engineered for “visual appeal,” meant to be photographed, posted, forgotten).

I stood alone in the empty shop as he painted a spiral of color inside the plastic cup, layering it slowly, carefully, as if it were a canvas. He spent minutes perfecting it, completely unaware of my presence. There was such integrity in the way he worked that something inside me cracked a bit deeper.

I felt a strange tear between shame and pride: shame for unknowingly ordering something so unnecessarily elaborate, destined to be consumed in seconds on my commute; pride for someone who could invest that much care into an item most people treat as disposable. Shame that we’ve built a culture of wasteful indulgence disguised as craft. Shame that people with real capability, people capable of beauty, often end up practicing it in places where their work goes unseen, uncredited, or rushed. That, or unintentionally forcing this guy to do all of this for practically no reason…but let’s run with the first narrative. 

I could’ve cried thinking about the impatience he must meet every day. The pressure (or longing) to perfect in imperfect conditions. The quiet erosion of effort and creativity when efficiency (or defeat) wins. How easily I’ve surrendered to that myself…

~{I always wonder where I went wrong. I keep romanticizing the past – opportunities missed, doors I never had the courage to walk through. Lately I’ve been thinking endlessly about comfort, security, the systems we’ve built around ourselves as a society, and how little control we seem to have within them. How the fear of losing control or comfort leaches away energy, positivity, creativity. Experimentation, space, learning – things I once took for granted – have begun to feel like luxuries sacrificed in the name of stability.}~

…and I keep wondering: was this smoothie his outlet for expression? Was it simply work? Was the care intentional, or muscle memory? Did he feel anything of what I projected onto him?

Maybe I’m projecting. Maybe he was simply following steps. But something in that moment became a mirror: the quiet dignity we bring to tasks no one notices, the unseen exhaustion behind them, and the yearning to make something meaningful in a system that rarely rewards meaning (at best, only “likes”). It’s painful to recognize that this level of attention can be bought for a few dollars. That something so quietly beautiful has a price tag at all.

I left with the strange feeling that both of us were performing our roles inside a machine neither of us designed. And yet, for a moment, his small act of attention reminded me that creativity survives in the cracks. It insists on showing up, even when no one is looking.