all quiet on the western front

it appears to be that school is war. the classrooms are my battlefield, where I fight to the death with my knowledge of literature, art, and science. the halls are my no mans land, where I scramble as quickly as my legs will allow. keeping my head down and a firm grip on my sanity. if there's anything Im learning from my time in service, it is that at all times, in every waking moment you are on display. as if the whole world is a petri dish and I am the one strain of virus that happens to be right under the lens of the microscope. if I part my hair differently than usual, I am shot up by the maxim guns of my peers. if I wear a pair pf shoes nobody else is wearing, I am engulfed by the poison gas of my fellow pupils. there is no freedom, there is no love, and there is no care. I am a solider. fighting at the western front, praying for my life. of course till the bell rings then I can stop being all poetic and deep and just go home to play super Mario bros 3 all night. yet the cycle always begins again.