Writers block

I haven't ever had this happen before. Not in this way. I am always so efficient at being my very own task master that I carve beastly monuments down into itty bitty dioramas, to be squished under my feet, Godzilla, with no wailing Barbies in my hands, or mouth. But something close. Or equally unexpected? An oversized dog with her bone, neatly chewed, salivated upon, and returned to be thrown again with wagging anticipation.

I am stuck. I can't write what I am told to do, I know what it is and I can't do it. The pressure has been released by the other, and therefore it just builds and builds in me, like a pressure cooker. There is nothing, I can't materially force myself to write.

And I am told that I should not write about myself either. No soothing balm to ease myself into the words that I must say, the words that I need to say, the ones that are unlistened to, unheard, uninteresting to anyone but myself. Those are the ones that I shouldn't rely on. Those are the ones that line my universe, the ever expanding one in which my existence means nothing.

So how do I keep going? How do I keep saying meaningless words? When I know there is no point to any of it? Why do I still go back, in self-effacing, shameful self-imposed ridicule? To be thrown another bone. Mostly chewed, disintegrating.
I am not the least, most insignificant creature, there is no glory of such smallness to be bestowed upon me. Just one more uninteresting splat of blood on the universal windshield. Transparent, diffuse, evanescent.

I cannot write anything. I cannot write what I am told to write. My body curls into convulsing spasms. The dread sets in, and my eyelids grow heavy. I struggle with the words, I want to write them, they are not even mine, and still I can't. It doesn't matter, except that it does, and I can't do what I have to do until I do this thing, bend over to be raped by the words that I do not choose, the imposition. It isn't enough humiliation. There should be more. In order to purge. But there is nothing.