Try not to think about it too hard. (It's late and the slow fan is on and the crickets are sweetening the night air. There is a part in your hair from where you didn't part it right when you came out of the water and shook yourself dry. The left side of your back is aching from the bike ride. The spoken distances you'd set yourself: twenty, fifty, a hundred kilometres, all of them falling back into silence at the end of the day. How much further you go when you don't think or speak of where your wheels are headed.)
It's been a long time since you have written without consequence; try to give in to writing without consequence. Writing without sequence, writing in sequins, writing in, sick one. For a while it will all feel unnatural and meta, as though you're writing to your words themselves, trying to coax them into being smart enough. Try to coax them, sure. But when you come to the choice of either picking something which is clever or something which is true, pick something which is true.
(Your hands feel warm from the slow typing, the warm night air. You are sitting at the desk where you wrote your first poems, where you first send messages of love to a girl you'd met at a writing class, where you played a Star Wars game on an old computer your school principal had given you when you were thirteen. You look up and there are two of you looking back: the glass in the windowpane has shifted. Against the darkness, the lamplight is catching in so many different ways.)
Without holding back, without category, without intention or place or hold thereon. People your paper. Pickle the rest. When you feel the bile rise, feed it with brine. Comparisons are odious. Transformation is inevitable. Just give yourself to practice and be brave enough to be bad at it for however long it will take to get your balance.