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On Possibilities There is a joy in Faerie, but it is hard for many to recognize. One can only hear it in the raised voices of parents as they shout, "Leave me alone!" at the child who has driven them to the end of their patience with an obstinate refusal to relinquish his demands that all aspects of the world be better sculpted to his young tastes. To be sure this is the same child for whose provision they have devoted their lives since the day of his arrival. For this child, there exists a shoebox full of photographs in the basement, capturing a history of tenderness not obvious in this instant. The joy of Faerie is deep with age and scarred by vicious acts motivated only by a finite reserve of energy, a failure to live up to one's ideals, a surrender to weaknesses without redemptive merit. In the lands of Faerie that boy has run away. You can imagine he is hiding behind the bushes just out of sight. That momentary blur at the corner of your eyes, which upon closer inspection reveals only a quiescent shadow, is certainly your joy. You open your mouth to call out to it, asking it to return, but the words do not come because, should your plea go unanswered, even the possibility of your joy is extinguished. In Faerie, possibilities are the constitutive fabric of reality. 
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