In writing as in life every time you think you have hit upon a seam, a road to run on, you read something that knocks you off down a side trail and you forget that you used to run along here, on this riverbed, and you try it out for a while. Everything is a running along like you do in dreams, circling, listening to the rhythm of your feet, focussing on the placement of your feet, how they peel off the ground and how your legs stretch and the texture of the road. Of course most of the time you lose yourself in thoughts of the maps in your head, half remembered and mistaken and distorted, and forget to look at the road under your feet, the landscape all around you. We write ourselves into the landscape of our own lives, back into the landscape, back and forth, forgetting and remembering.
And to be perfectly honest mostly I don't really run, I just walk shamble stop start lurch.
Meanwhile, read these two beautiful poems by Robin Sampson.