When I Can't Make Sense

I used to be (yesterday, or the day before) convinced that we write to make sense of the world--even if that means expressing one's view that it's all senseless. Today, I wonder.Very little makes sense to me right now--and still, I write! I want to, and I feel I must. Perhaps, this, too, is one facet of life: the doing of the next right little thing--because it matters--even if I really couldn't say just how or where.