I'm rushed by the ringing of a bell. I look down at my accelerating feet; the distance between my steps increase along with the speed of my paces. I arrive in front of heavy brown door framed by a teal trip of metal. The light sweat on the back of my neck chills and the surface of my skin is covered in goosebumps as the pressure of the air conditioning forces it's way down from the vent when I walk through the doorway. I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears from exhaustion as I take my seat in the back of the room. I always run here to avoid getting yelled at. It is not until I take my last deep, hasty breath that the peculiar smell of synthetic wood and paper seeps into my clothes and airways. My eyes begin to wander around the room, examining the diverse spectrum of students that make up the population. The figures are primarily dressed in black and are hugged by a sufficient amount of unique, miss-matching patterns.

The commander of the class calls the class to take attendance. Her raspy voice screeches in my ears. Standing at a stiff attention the master Sargent arrives from his headquarters and reports in with an anxious voice  because he dreads this awful excuse for a class. Then we sit at ease, waiting for the next command  to blurt out of the over-weight man we call Master Sargent. Day in, day out, just waiting for these three years to be completed so I can leave this program.   By taking this class, I am forced by the guidelines to salute the commander, which is a strict policy. "Left, left, left, right, left." The two words continue to ring in my head, even though I listen to the daily. I am completely deprived of my energy and will for attentiveness. This place is useless. It is a place for all the kids that are unsure, or looking for some guidance; for those still guessing about where their life is going to take them—pointless for the students ready to join the military and get paid for fighting right out of high school. Really that's all I want—to push through these devastating years with as much experience as possible, and get a taste of wisdom.

It's either college or military, and no in between. Most of the kids in this class are ready to catch whatever life has to throw at them. However, some are ignorant and put up a front of a wisdom they have yet to acquire. What I have are stories told to me throughout the years. Although I knew most of them were glorified, I would pay close attention and practically ate them up with a spoon. I have plans, unlike most of these kids. Every beat of my heart thuds in the path I've set out for my future. I live with an overwhelming feeling that every day I'm fulfilling my destiny. I enjoy seeing my future laid out as if set as tasty dishes on a table, at the disposition of my liking. But along with the comfort of the future comes the present weight of society, created by the strict rules of the world, that I carry on my shoulders. There is also the prospect of inconsistencies that come with the military, like working with no 401k to fall back on. That perspective deteriorates the conception of my table. I sit, hypnotized by inanimate objects; my subconscious slowly drifting off into sleep. I'm somewhere in between a dream and reality and I can hear the ticking of the clock loudly in my head as the minutes drag by. Tick-tock, tick-tock. All we have is today, so why plan on the future, living with regrets of yesterday? But the future is starting now—I sit with these thoughts running, pacing through my head as I day dream. Oh wait, did I just get called on? My body twitches in a simultaneous motion, like when you wake up from a dream where you're falling. I wasn't listening to this lecture in class any way. Too dazed to think, I am mesmerized by the fluorescent light reflecting off of the sergeant's shiny bald head. I can tell he is only anxious to blurt out the next command. My imagination plays with the idea of my life to turn out like his. The man is single and in his mid-forty's. A round, accumulation of fat surrounds his abdominal area. Do I really want to end up like him? He has money, but no experiences. Money isn't everything, but I'd like to go to college. However, without a scholarship, how else can I afford it? The room goes dark and the walls go blank. Once again I begin to feel groggy. It is as if being hypnotized to sleep is my body's way of blocking out a dragged out, over-taught lesson. This is such an easy class, you just wear a dull blue uniform that attracts the kids that point and tease and wonder why anyone would ever do that to themselves. Some get made fun of, me included, but for the money that's involved it's worth the easy "A." Tick-tock, tick-tock as the time drags on and thoughts fly through my head. This is my thinking class—"my wear-the-uniform but doesn't require a lot of effort" class... My eyes are blinded as the lights go on. I stand "at attention" because the sound of the light switch symbolizes the freedom that is the end of this dreadful period.