I will tell you this: in Faerieland, there is no matter, no flesh and blood, no sense and no sensation.  All is of light, of energy.  All is a seeming-thing.  The hungry soil permits no stagnancy of form, permits no solid being.  It is all whim and whimsy, all mouth and sweetwords.  No substance at all.

In Faerieland, the world yields.  It does not push back, but lets you mold it as you will, erect glistering palaces and rolling faerie-hills, carve into trees your perfect hiding-place.  Conjure up trees themselves, and forests.  It does not change without you, but stays - for all the shifting, there is so much that cannot change.  The Hungry Land is never growing, always stomach-growl.  There is no time there, so nothing can decay, nothing can rot.  It persists, perversely, virulent green.  It grows without growing, glowing.  A perfect world.  A mockery.  A fitting home.

If those of Faerieland cross over to this place, you have some time to float above it all, some time to be made of stories, delight, wonder, glamour, nightmare.  Time to be Name, and nothing else.  And then the Sun begins to work, and starts to fill you up with matter, starts to subject you to decay, to process, to change, to warp and heft.  You start to feel, start to gain sense, feel the edges of a body, feel the pressure of bone upon bone, of head upon neck.  Of world upon body.

It is at this point that many choose to go home, to return to Faerieland and let the hungry soil drain them dry, back down to Name and nothing else.

It is at this point that some few choose to stay.

I will tell you this: in the sunlit-land, of flesh and blood and matter, sense, sensation, being—the world presses back.  Those native to sun-stuff have not often cause to notice it so keenly, but those who have crossed over, those who forsake Faerieland entire, when their body is full-up on matter, when they are fully fae no longer, it is an awesome, terrific thing.

It inspires awe.  It begets terror.  The stuffing-sickness is an insult, but this is our antithesis.  Acknowledgment of matter-self, of self beyond Name.

Once the terror passes, it is wonderous, the world pushing back, making a perfect balance at the space between your body and bodies-not-your-body.  Mutual observation, mutual creation.  It is a heady, heavy feeling, the sensation of gravity after a timeless time of weightlessness.  You could fill up again on that pressure, on the awe of it.  A recognition Faerieland could never grant you, not all teeth and sharpness as it is.

It is that which makes some faerie stay.  More than love, more than want or duty.  The effort mortal bodies put into creation.  There is nothing like that in our home, in Faerieland.  The land twists with your will as much as our own, and it is never a thing we push against to make.

Before this place, never have I made a thing by touching, never was I made by touch in turn, the points of contact (points of emptiness) bouncing like soundwaves.  If there is nothing there, I will make it by perceiving.  If I am not here, the thing that is not there will make me too.  Mutual creation, mutual observation.

There is never no one in a forest.  Trees are always listening to one another.  Their roots pressing against the soil, the soil keeping their roots in shape.  In quantum physics, if something is unobserved, there is a possibility, after a long, long while, it will diffuse.  It will be more-than-one-place, more-than-one-thing.

I will tell you this:

When I was younger than I am, and lived in Faerieland, and had no heart, everything was a story.  I am not younger than I am, I live no longer in Faerieland, I have a heart that never will stop growing.  Everything is a story still.

Is it not wonderful?  Awful?  Full of awe?