A friend of mine was telling how, a few years ago, he was having a drink in a gastropub with a friend when she suddenly told him that he had beautiful eyes.
“I almost cried,” he said, “I couldn’t remember that last time anyone had said anything beautiful to me.”
And that made him think that he was living a half-life. Much the same way functional alcoholics manage to get through. He felt he was stumbling through his life, in spite of the outward appearance of doing well.
But that comment galvanised him. He told me that a simple comment can throw into relief the deformed geology of a half-life; make you look for a new map. Or better still, put on your walking boots and become your own cartographer.