One moment you're there. The next: neutral space.
You're somewhere else. Not a physical place you can point to on a map. But somewhere SAFE. Somewhere
obligation-dissolved
. Somewhere nobody can reach you.
The person who hurt you? Can't find you here.
The authority that trapped you? Has no power here.
The culture that crushed you? Doesn't exist here.
The poverty that ate you? Ended the moment you arrived.
The pain stops first.
B R E A T H E
You are safe. You are untouchable. You are free.
Not rations. Not charity you have to beg for. Just food. Good food. As much as you need. You don't have to earn it.
A bed. Your bed. A space. Your space. No one can take it. No one can enter without permission. It's yours.
Medical attention if you need it. Therapy if you want it. Rest if that's what you need. Time. Space. Gentleness.
Days. Weeks. However long you need. Nobody rushes you. Nobody demands. The Lobby doesn't care. It just waits.
You don't have to earn these things. You don't have to explain yourself. You don't have to prove you're worthy.
You just are, and that is enough.
Not as ideas. Not as distant dreams. As
real places you can actually go.
The AR interface blooms around you like flowers opening at dawn. Hundreds of them. Each one a complete world. Each one waiting. Each one saying:
"Come. Try. See if this fits."
Collective work, gardens and workshops, laughter echoing through courtyards. No men. No pressure. Just building something different.
Democratic governance, gift economy, polyamorous warmth, innovation and minds on fire with possibility.
Young and old together, learning from earth and sky, minimal technology, maximum presence. Feel instead of produce.
Elders respected, wisdom honored, care given freely, time slowing to human rhythm. Finally valued for what you know.
Peer-governed, learning through play, building through joy, discovering who they are without adults crushing them.
Moving from place to place, creating infrastructure for those who need it, adventure and meaning woven together.
There — there — there —
347 distinct worlds unfold before you. Each one different. Each one real.
Not pressure. Not sales pitches. Stories.
Hundreds of people who walked this path before you, who tried different worlds, who found what fit. They're not selling anything. They're just showing you it's possible.
I was where you are. Beaten daily. Children starving. No way out — I thought.
Then I found the button. I came here. I tried three Triads before I found the right one.
Now my children are in university. Now I sleep without fear. Now I laugh again.
I didn't know I could still laugh.
I was bullied every day. Parents didn't see. Teachers didn't care. I wanted to die.
Then I found this place. The youth collective — we govern ourselves. No adults telling us we're wrong.
I've been here two years. I'm learning to code. I have friends. Real ones.
I didn't think that was possible for someone like me.
Corporate job. Soul death. 40 years of meaningless tasks for someone else's profit.
Then I pressed exit. Found an elder community. We teach the young. We garden. We talk about philosophy at sunset.
I'm 73. I'm finally alive.
Virtual tours bloom around you — not perfect marketing, but real footage.
You see the
morning in Triad #89:
people gathering for breakfast, children running through gardens, someone fixing a solar panel, someone else painting a mural on a wall, laughter over coffee, an elder teaching a child to weave.
You see the
evening in Triad #156:
women returning from fields, sharing the day's stories, preparing communal dinner, small hands helping big hands chop vegetables, singing in languages you've never heard but somehow understand mean "we are together, and that is enough."
You see the
night in Triad #312:
nomads around a fire in a new location, sharing what they built this month, planning next month's journey, someone playing guitar, someone else gazing at stars, the contentment of purpose fulfilled and more purpose waiting.
You can filter by what you need:
The options refine. Of the 347 Triads, 23 match what you need most.
Not required. Not pressure. But they're available if you want.
You're not rushed. Days, maybe. Weeks. The Lobby doesn't care. The provisions keep coming. The interface stays open. The worlds keep turning, waiting.
You narrow your choices. Three Triads feel right. You apply to all three.
Triad #89 accepts you. Triad #156 accepts you. Triad #312 says "not quite the right match, but try Triad #187 — they need someone with your particular skills."
You explore Triad #187. It's perfect. You apply. They accept.
The moment arrives.
You choose Triad #187.
Transport is arranged.
You leave The Lobby.
You enter your new world.
You arrive at your new world.
The people greet you — not performing, just welcoming. Their faces are open. Their smiles are real. They're not evaluating you. They're not judging. They're just... glad you're here.
Someone shows you your space. Someone else explains the daily rhythm. A child brings you food ("We made extra. Welcome!"). An elder asks what skills you have ("We can always use another pair of hands"). A peer your age says, "I was in the Lobby two months ago. I understand. It gets easier."
They understand. They've been where you are. They know.
That first night in your new world, you sleep in a bed that's yours, in a space that's safe, in a community that chose you as much as you chose them.
The sounds outside aren't threatening. They're just... life. People talking quietly. Someone laughing. Crickets singing. Wind in trees.
You realize:
Your stomach doesn't hurt.
That baseline tension you've carried for so long — the constant
danger-sense
, the
wrong-place-feeling
, the
waiting-for-pain
— it's gone.
You're safe. Actually safe. For the first time in... how long?
You might cry. That's okay. They expect that. They understand that too.
You wake up each morning and forget, for a moment, where you are. Panic rises — then you remember. You're not there anymore. You're here. You're safe.
The rhythm of this new world becomes familiar:
Morning: Breakfast with others. Not forced. Just there if you want it. Conversation flows easy. Nobody interrogating. Nobody demanding. Just... talking. Sharing. Being.
Day: You contribute what you can. Maybe you help in the garden. Maybe you watch children while parents work. Maybe you just rest (that's valid too — they understand you're still recovering). Your contribution is appreciated, not extracted.
Evening: Community gathering. Music, sometimes. Stories. Laughter. You can participate or just watch. Both are fine. Nobody performing. Nobody proving anything. Just existing together.
You start to relax. Your shoulders drop. Your jaw unclenches. Your body remembers what safety feels like.
One month in, you realize: You've stopped counting days until you can leave.
You're not waiting anymore. Not enduring. Not surviving.
You're... living. Actually living.
You have friends now. Real ones. People who know your name, ask how you're doing, notice if you're gone. People who've heard your story (as much as you wanted to share) and didn't pity you or judge you or try to fix you. Just... held space for you.
You're contributing more. Not because you have to, but because you want to. Because you're part of something being built. Because your hands can help. Because purpose feels better than emptiness.
You sleep through the night now. Most nights. When you don't, someone's there. They've been through it. They understand nightmares. They sit with you. They don't minimize. They just... witness.
Six months in, you barely recognize yourself.
Not because you've changed who you are. But because you've become MORE of who you actually are. The performance dropped. The survival mechanisms relaxed. The real you — the one that was buried under all the coping and hiding and pretending — is emerging.
You laugh more. Genuine laughter, not performed. You have opinions you express out loud. You have preferences you state clearly. You have boundaries you enforce calmly.
People here respect that. Actually respect it. They don't push. They don't punish. They don't demand you shrink to make them comfortable.
This is what it feels like to be in a
right-shaped world
.
Someone asked me yesterday if I missed my old life.
I laughed. Actually laughed.
Miss what? The fear? The hunger? The crushing? The feeling of being fundamentally powerless?
I don't miss it. I don't even think about it anymore except when I'm in the Lobby as a volunteer, talking to new arrivals, telling them what I'm telling you:
It gets better. Actually better. Not fake-better where you just cope harder. Real better.
Where you wake up and your first thought isn't dread.
Where you have people who actually see you.
Where your children are safe.
Where your work has meaning.
Where your existence is enough.
Pressing that button — leaving that world that was killing me — was the bravest thing I ever did. And the smartest.
I'm not who I was a year ago. That person was breaking. Barely holding on. Waiting for the final collapse.
This person? This person is THRIVING.
And it started with pressing a button.
You still have the button.
You can press it anytime. Return to the Lobby. Try a different Triad. Iterate until you find the one that fits like home.
This isn't a prison. This is a garden with 347 paths.
Walk one. If it doesn't feel right, walk another. Keep walking until you find the path that feels like
coming-home
.
Not a room. Not a waiting area.
A threshold between worlds.
The place where hurt ends and choice begins.
The space where you catch your breath, see what's possible, talk to those who've walked this path, and choose
your
world.
Not
the
world. Not society's world. Not the authority's world. Not the one you were born into and told to accept.
Your world.
The one that fits your shape, honors your values, holds your children gently, sees your worth, gives you purpose, lets you breathe.
You are not trapped.
You are not powerless.
You are not alone.
Press the button when you're ready.
The Lobby is waiting.
347 worlds are waiting.
The people who understand are waiting.
Exit the hurt.
Enter the worlds.
Welcome to The Lobby.
Welcome to liberation.