I have days–most days–where my life is just events that don’t mean anything. It’s as if I’m marking time, caught up in doing things-things that I don’t care about–but not experiencing reality.

Millions of people before me have lived and died. If I could ask, I think many would say they had happy or worthwhile lives, or both. Some would have defined this as how many experiences they had. Others, by how they experienced.

But most humans, I think, just live out of habit, being occasionally grateful, and sometimes reminded of how much they’re missing.

I wonder how many are like me. Afraid to sleep, having to trust that I’ll wake up. Afraid of the shortness of life, but having such difficulty embracing full experience. How many others make it difficult to do what they most want to do?

We bury ourselves in illusions. We attach importance to the silliest things. But most of all, we forget to pay attention to our own existence.

Sharing is what gives us meaning.

Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe everyone else gets it, and I’m the one who doesn’t. Now wouldn’t that be something? The joke would be on me, and I’d never get to laugh.

But I’m right about sharing. It isn’t much to ask. Share what I love with people–someone–who value me. It isn’t much to ask, but it sure seems hard to do. How long do I have to figure out how to get out of my own way?