Level One

You land in a place you’ve never been before. The air smells wrong, or maybe it smells better. You can’t tell yet. Your bag’s heavier than you thought. Your phone’s at 9%. You don’t know the language. You don’t know the streets. You don’t know where the hell the bus stop is.

Nobody here knows you. Nobody cares.

This is Level One. No saves. No cheat codes. Just you, standing there, deciding whether to take the first step or freeze. And here’s the truth, you’re supposed to feel lost. That’s the point.

It’s a weird thing, walking away from the you that’s been living your life up until now. Like peeling off a skin that doesn’t fit anymore. You leave it in a heap behind you and walk out into the world wearing nothing but your newness. First time you do it, it’s a rush. Like your first tattoo. And just like tattoos, one’s never enough.

You learn quick: you can’t really step into a new place unless you’re ready to burn the map and start from zero. Everything you knew back home? Worthless here. Your clever shortcuts, your go-to bars, your Sunday routines, they don’t translate. Most people hate that. They clutch at what’s familiar like it’s a life raft. Me? I think it’s the point.

There’s that line, something about how if you don’t read, you only live one life, but if you do, you live a hundred. And Gandalf, the old bastard, nailed it: the world’s not in your books and maps. It’s out there. Those two together? That’s gospel.

Every border is a clean slate. A bed you’ve never slept in, air that smells like something you can’t name yet, a language that makes you feel like a child when you try to speak it. You get to decide who you are all over again. Nobody knows your story here. No one cares.

So tell me, what’s going to stop you?