The thought of all that happiness was hard to bear. What's the point of happiness when all it does is throw the facts of dying into clear relief?

I want to be careful not to throw all this away. This is happiness. I think this is what happiness is. I haven't got it yet, but I can sense it out there. I feel I'm close to it. Some days, I'm so close I can almost smell it.

He wrote one more paragraph for his own sake, to see what he had to say.

We all operate on different levels of awareness. Half the time I don't know what I'm doing.

I suppose that each of us may have a great moment in our life, a month, a week a year, when we are most fully what we are meant to be

Gradually the feeling wears off, and I feel swamped again by the inexplicable pettiness of being alive.

I don't find life unbearably grave. I find it almost intolerably frivolous.