Before creativity becomes a work, it is pressure: an insistence that something not yet visible wants to exist.

A creative life often begins before a person has language for it. It begins as surplus: too much noticing, too much imagining, too much feeling, too many possible versions of what a moment could become.
The child rearranges the room, invents private worlds, hears rhythm in machinery, or becomes preoccupied with a question no one else seems to care about.
Long before there is a painting, company, theorem, song, garden, or book, there is a current.