A well-lived life looks a bit like this twisty road.

What if you lived your whole life, and at the end, when asked how you spent your allotment of time you realized you really had nothing to say.

You woke up every day and did what everyone expected of you. You never stepped out of the boundaries. Never crossed a line. Never deviated. You had nothing to say. Nothing to tell.

Wow. I can't think of anything more awful at the end of a life. Lived with no surprises, no tangents, no sudden moves. Completely predictable, stable, unremarkable. No stories.

I think stories are like scars: evidence that life took place. Stories are the differentiating characteristic that separates life from existence. If you have nothing interesting to tell, did you really live?