One Hundred Five

Every morning, I get up and I write, just a little. I don’t know precisely who I’m writing to. It’s mostly to myself, but not entirely. I’m trying to say something to someone, but I am not sure who, nor what I’m trying to say. It’s sometimes a frustrating and pointless one-way conversation, but I don’t want to stop until I’ve said what I need to say, though I don’t know when that might be or how I will tell that I’ve accomplished what I set out to do, since I don’t know just what that is.