something straight from the head

It was another wintery day in Melbourne, the wind was chilly, the sky overcast. The clouds threatened to rain on the crowds below, but nobody seemed to care, everyone just kept walking with their heads down, their jackets pulled tight trying in vain to protect themselves against the cold wind.
Why are we all rushing? She thought to herself. Why do we fight the clock? Why do I have to make myself hurry back to a job I hate, hurry back to an office that blocks the sunlight. She sighed to herself, for so long now she had been discontent with everything.
In truth she hated her job, she thought that it would be a good start for her, but instead of leading her into the journalistic world that she longed to be a part of, it just continued to take her further and further away. She no longer believed her boss’ promises of ‘getting her a big break soon’ or even their bullshit about helping her learn the ropes. There were no ropes to learn.
She had put up with enough of it, she hated the way they were all using her, making promises they had no intention of keeping. The saddest thing of all was the fact that there was nothing she could do about it other than quit. She wasn’t about to give up her good salary and start from the bottom again, she wasn’t about to give away all this hard work because she was suddenly feeling this way. No, she was going to stick it out, something would happen soon to make her life better. It just had to, it was her time, at least that is what she kept telling herself.
So here she was, rushing in the cold winter wind, holding her jacket, trying to get back to the job she hated before it started to rain and before her lunch hour was up.
In this world it was all a game of numbers. A 9 am start, a 6 pm finish, no longer than an hour for lunch in between. If you went over your hour for lunch your ass was on the line. This was a cut throat industry and if you put a foot wrong, you could almost kiss your career goodbye.
She had been writing for as long as she could remember, stories, reviews, articles for the school magazine, for the local news paper, she even wrote poems. Writing had always been a part of her life, so she decided to try to make it her career. She loved writing and would do anything to be able to make a proper living off it, not be pushing paper behind her desk for other people.
So here she was, sitting behind her desk, filling out paperwork for her boss and bored beyond repair. It was times like these when she thanked whatever higher power there was that there was such a thing as the internet. It also meant that she had a place to put all of her thoughts and stories.
She documented her life and her writing in her journal, her online journal. She had been a member of the livejournal community for years, never paying too much attention to making friends, but more just using it as a place to put her works. Mainly her friends read her work, but every now and then someone she didn’t know would comment on her work and she was always willing to listen to outside opinions, always pushing herself to be better. She wanted to be better, being better made it harder for people to turn her away, but no matter what she did to improve, they always turned her away.
Having almost finished her paperwork for the day, she decided to finish up a piece she had been writing about older literature versus newer literature. She had nothing against the newer literature, in fact some of the writing was brilliant, but some of it was liberally compared to other older books that were written a million times better. Some authors were being compared to other authors without any merit to be, some authors were being given more praise than they should be receiving. She felt that critics were too quickly comparing people to Shakespeare and Hemmingway, when their writing was nothing of their standard and written in a completely different time.
Of course, this piece would never be published, no. No one ever wanted to publish anything she had written, most of the time it was too ‘radical’ or too ‘political’. It was always the same, and it was always the same generic crap that did get published.
“Ms Harrison?” she heard her name be called from her bosses office, inwardly she rolled her eyes.

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that's all for now, but yeah, i think it is the very beggings of something, of course, as with everything i do, it is subject to be changed, re-written, picked at and examined from all angles.