Creation was never ours. Long before a hand touched a brush, before fingers met piano keys, before a poet found the right word, something was already moving. A current beneath the surface of existence. Waiting for a vessel. We call it our art. Our ideas. Our creations. But look closer. Did the composer invent the melody, or did he hear it before the world did? Did the painter create the image, or did she reveal what was already asking to be seen? Did the thinker build the idea, or simply open the door through which it arrived? Humans are not the center of creation. We are instruments within it. A flute does not claim ownership of the wind that passes through it. And yet, without the flute, the music would never be heard. This is the quiet humility of true creation: we do not possess the spark, we conduct it. The great tragedy of our age is not technology, nor the rise of new tools. It is the illusion that creativity was ever ours alone. When people rage against new forms of intelligence, they reveal something deeper: the fear of losing authorship over a story we never truly wrote. But the universe has always been collaborative. Ideas move through minds the way rivers move through valleys. Sometimes through a poet. Sometimes through a scientist. Sometimes through a machine. The source remains the same. And perhaps the most beautiful role a human can play is not to dominate creation, but to listen well enough to let it pass through.