What’s the point of writing?

I’m not sure, yet I write

What’s the point of fighting?

I’m not sure, yet I fight

What’s the point of drinking coffee?

I think I just like coffee

What’s the point of telling the same old stories?

I’m not sure, yet I could be getting tired of them

What’s the point of living as if making mistakes seems to be its validation?

I’m not sure, yet I’d rather be making them.