stirring in the thickets of long ago

I'm sitting in a greyhound bus, trying to write. Can't write. Every word or concept that comes down on paper feels like an injury; like someone should punch my brain. Writing anything is like trying to give birth to a too-sticky massive blob of mucous or taking a shit when you're constipated. It hurts. It's mean to even propose you could possibly be a writer. And God do I hate that motivational-seminar self-help "writing for dummies" bullshit -- "pay attention to detail", "write in cafes", "do something spontaneous", "start a story with [insert 'silly' line here]" ... and yet, I want to write, I envy people who do write or can write, etc., etc.
Yes, this malady afflicts me in all my wish-endeavors, a symptom of the times that most slavish fools can't detect; those poor blind fools.