Here is a short story regarding 'inner journeys' for English. It started off with some hope, but then I got lazy and it degenerated from there...Pretty crap and cliche and lame, but oh well. I would like feedback. Take care.

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It was a chilly day, overcast, monotonous grey. She pulled on an old green knitted jumper picked off the top of a pile of clothes and ventured outside, hands in pockets, walking down the street, watching the pavement slide by, not looking up to smile at those she did pass or chance a glance at the sky, as if she had some place to be.
She didn’t. Not really. Everyone is always thinking, pretending, they have some place to be. Always too busy to be courteous, to watch the clouds float on high, to lay back and smell the roses. Perpetual motion. Oppressed emotion.
One foot in front of the other, again and again, seemingly empty steps as her thoughts flitted from longing, to superficiality, and back again, back and forth, back and forth, always quickly forgotten, discarded like an old worn out shoe, or last Sunday’s sermon.
She quickened her pace to a jog. Black leggings, green knitted jumper, overly bright new white shoes, red hair trailing in the wind. Things moved by faster, she thought less; it nearly satisfied. She wished she had brought music to fill the gaps, though, the gaps that would appear in the night sky when she gazed at it so that, seeing too much of herself, she had to look away, go watch whatever was on TV.
Passing a wall covered in graffiti she caught sight of a fragment of the writings there:

And true love waits
In haunted attics
And true love lives
On lollipops and crisps

She dismissed them, of course, as unimportant, inconsequential. Those sorts of things.
On she ran. Turning a corner she espied a park and decided she would stop there, see if she could get a drink, catch her breath. Sitting down on a bench, her mind began to wander, surveying the place in which she found herself. Soon a feeling crept up on her, one of familiarity, as if she had been here before in some distant time of misty memory just out of reach. She felt something gradually come over her that she could not remember feeling before, but knew she had, something indescribable. It made the world around her appear magical in a way it had not for many years. She saw the dandelions poking through the spiky, rain-deprived grass not merely as weeds, but delicate, beautiful entities in their own right, reflecting the brilliance of the sun and the determination of life. And as for the drab, monotonous clouds, they too took on a new life, not monotonous at all, but a myriad of different forms and textures, all unique and beautiful. She gazed around her with the awe of one given such new sight, one offered the gift of purpose and hope in a world formerly nearly devoid of such things, and simply sat there in wonder for a while.
Tears welled up in her eyes and she let them flow down her cheeks and onto the parched earth. She curled up and, hugging her legs, let a whole lifetime of tears finally stream forth as a loud clap of thunder signalled the sudden coming of rain.
*
When she finally looked out upon the world again, night had fallen. The rain had stopped and the world was glistening as the streetlights were reflected in the shroud of water that covered the ground. She listened to droplets fall from the trees around, and she felt a new sense of meaning to life and an ability to actually feel what she felt. She did not know why it was she had such a feeling of intense emotion connected with this place, but that was something to think about later, now she just wanted to dive into life, explore the new horizons open to her. The words that she had read earlier came back to her infused with new meaning (the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls and tenement halls) as she stood looking down the road that stretched out ahead of her.