A Muse's Friendship

I have a muse.

Normally, when one talks about a muse, one pictures a creative, lively presence, usually in the form of a beautiful young woman, an angel, or a fairy. 

Mine is also a beautiful young woman, but there are no wings or halos as far as I know.

The interactions with her are profound and insightful, and the way we share our thoughts make me almost feel as though I speak with her lips instead of my own, despite her stubborn insistence that my creativity is a gift from within.

Today, I reflect on my friendship with her.

To me, friendship is best described as the ability to share.  But it's worth noting that, contrary to Hollywood's version of budding relationships, it won't happen in the midst of crisis.  You don't fall in love, platonic or otherwise, with anyone while you're both being shot at and things are exploding right next to you.

No, when two people have just met, the friendship begins over tiny slivers of insight into them, on their own, to be almost irrelevant to their character at large.  I'm not talking about faith, grief, reaction to crises, or profound joy.  I'm talking about finding out that they like the color black, have way more interest than I thought was possible in online make-up tutorials, or have a passionate phobia of germs that arises when someone else sips their coffee.

...for which I remain eternally penitent.

These little moments are what carry friendships through getting shot at or things exploding right next to you.  Love and friendship are carried through crises, not formed in them.

To put it more colorfully: fires may purify silver, but they don't create it.