Firist Night
The barracks smell of oil and canvas,
a long room humming with the weight of arrival.
We drop our duffels in a line,
trying to look older than we feel.
The lights flicker — not mystical, just tired —
but it still feels like the world is deciding
whether to take us seriously.
And the night keeps breathing, slow and low,
as if waiting to see who we’ll become.
Our thoughts jitter like loose wires,
small uncertainties buzzing under the ribs.
Every heartbeat feels like a coin toss
between courage and the urge to vanish.
We lie in rows, strangers pretending
we’re not measuring each other in the dark.
And the night keeps breathing, slow and low,
as if waiting to see who we’ll become.
Boots scrape the floor in uneven rhythm
as we settle into the metal bunks,
a lineup of beds that feel like judgment.
No symbols, no visions —
just the hard truth of being here
because someone else said so.
Tension hangs like a curtain,
each silence a blade we pretend not to see.
A joke breaks the air,
but the punchline folds in on itself,
half‑heard, half‑meant,
and we laugh because it’s easier
than admitting none of us know
what tomorrow looks like.
And the night keeps breathing, slow and low,
as if waiting to see who we’ll become.
The room settles into a heavy quiet.
Thirty bodies in the dark,
each one a private battlefield
trying not to tremble.
The ceiling stares back blankly,
offering no answers,
only the steady hum of old wiring
and the soft rustle of restless sheets.
Someone tries to say something reassuring,
but the words contradict themselves
before they land.
Meaning slips,
but the fear stays.
We breathe carefully,
as if the dark might hear us.
And the night keeps breathing, slow and low,
as if waiting to see who we’ll become.
Lights out.
No dreams, no visions —
just the sound of thirty strangers
trying to sleep through the weight
of their own thoughts.
The future feels close,
too close,
like it’s standing at the foot of every bed
waiting for dawn to give it permission.
And the night keeps breathing, slow and low,
as if waiting to see who we’ll become —
and we wait with it.
