Pieces of a puzzle.

I told you about how I found myself in the previous post. It continues to amaze me just how little I know about writing every time I get into it. A guy told me, 'write me a story, move me.' I looked at his message on whatsapp and imagined the power that would consume me as I wrung his neck. So, he called.
'You can't do it, right?'
I breathed out loud for a moment, got my senses on track like I was waging the greatest war within. I thought of what it would mean to me if I wrote him the story, and the answer was 'nothing', then I asked myself what it would mean to him, and realized I didn't know. So, I did not write him the story. He is still mad at me, but he will get over it. So, why did I decline to write him a story? I didn't feel like it, that's why.
It got me going for a while then I felt exhausted at my sudden power to self actualize, and so the fact that I do find myself understanding my ability bored me. I wanted a thrill, call it being high on self importance and choking on self resistance, but I did get time to write him that story. Here it goes:

" You asked me for a story. Write me a story. I have heard that before, by default, just like everyone expects me to unleash a hardcopy of a book when I say that I am a writer. So, why can't they pull out their smartphones and access me through Google? You asked for a story, like a boss demanding a status report. I could have given it, but I didn't. You asked, not because you needed it, but because you wanted me to prove my creativity. You wanted me to prove that I have a constant flow of words to be spewed at anytime. You wanted me to write something via whatsapp because it's a medium you can share the work with all you contacts. You did not need words to move you, rather words to move- to forward, like, share, comment on. So, here's your story, look at it like the mind of a writer, a female short haired writer. A Kenyan writer. A piscean who is as complicated and compulsive as the seas that rock boats and sink ships. A writer in and out of love. A writer who is reading this and wondering, where the heck did all that come from? Where's the story? Where's the damn story, darn it! Where's the awe? You wanted a story, but one thing I have learned is that no one can write you the perfect story when you demand it. You already have your story. You are proof of it. If you demand a story from another, take time and think of which story you would give if they were to ask you to return the favor. It's the bits and pieces of a puzzle that clarify a picture when assembled.'