A Writing Exercise

"Once upon a time," Sophia repeated to herself after scribbling out the first lines of what she wanted to be a simple writing exercise. Uncomfortable guessing how to start it, she had decided to start on a cliche. She thought thought that she could always back track later and compensate for her inadequacies, maybe close it with with an ironic cadence. End it with an equally tired cliche to close the parable, maybe her pretentiousness would elevate her simple writings above the timelessly tired words that it began with. Reading and re-reading her first couple words, she couldn't help but shake the thought that what she'd begun, what she hoped to achieve, were just hopeless attempts at wit.
Sophia sat there a while, but still, these four words were the only ones there to mark the acid washed papers that she'd bought earlier that day with the serious intent of producing something, anything. Sophia, already somewhat resigned to feeling that nothing worthwhile would follow, alternated between a strong impulse to crumple it up or to vainly work at writing what she'd already decided would be crap.
She repeated the line in her head, "Once upon a time" assuming that the rest would follow, that maybe, if she could just write one whole sentence the rest would follow. "Maybe its the pen," she muttered dejectedly, "maybe its the lighting, maybe its the cliche, maybe, maybe I'm just making excuses." As she went on her muttering into a sharp complaint, agitation marked on the inflection of the last to words. Her disposable fountain pen was leaking on to the page without any effort, staining a few pages that were lying beneath the first.
"Once upon a time... fables..." she said absent mindedly. "Am i writing a fable?" she asked aloud rhetorically, not quite caring if what she said meant anything, more just fidgeting with her mouth and mind. "Why am I writing this?" this time, as she spoke these words, her lips puckered into a sharp crease. "Don't question your purpose or motives, you've barely even begun," she interrupted, trying to keep from losing focus. "Its just an exercise, just write it, don't think of your relationship to your words yet, just write," as she repeated these last words, she lingered a moment, stretching the vowels. "Its just an exercise," she concluded, guessing that just saying these words would provide some serenity.
"And, and what? I repeat these self-help maxims dug up from some cheap book to help me write. And for what? I still haven't written a god-damned thing of my own, all i have is a few recycled words scribbled on a page, the same words I penned out nearly an hour ago. Fuck, fuck, fuckers, fuck faces," Sophia nearly shouted, and would have if she wasn't worried about her neighbors sleeping only a few feet away, separated by a thin dry wall, cheap plaster, and a few coats of now chipping paint. Even though she hadn't vented as should would have liked to, the first hint of conviction could be heard. "Fuck, fuckers, asshole, fucker," echoed through her mind, and she was at once filled with frustration and a sense of futility, and an inner self-sarcasm dancing in the absurdity.
"OK, I'm done now."
She had a bit of a wince, and a bit of a grimace as she put down her pen. Sophia's leaking fountain had but to leave her fingers for a look of relief to spread across her face. The tightened lines of her contorted face smoothed out. A sigh was carried out on her breath as her chest and lungs relaxed beneath her unwashed shirt.
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And, for a moment she she felt as though she might be happy.

/or/

And for a moment,she thought that she should be happy.