My imagination is more interesting than my life.
Beware the time and age when there may be no difference!
There's a sort of strange pleasure, though, in the passage of time, where it's possible to realise, in retrospect, that your past reality ends up feeling no more real than some old movie you watched way back then. This can be discovered very clearly (noticed) in conversation with older relatives, probably because their world was so different to one's own today. One of the more interesting perspectives is the way in which they can reconcile horses and carriages with V8 Fords of the early 50s - well, in my own family, until twelve years ago such relationships were normal.
I see the Internet as offering such a compression of experience, where the only thing standing in the way of such experience is the self. For example: it's half-past four as I write, lunch long over and the debris awaiting in the kitchen. For a couple of hours - and right now as I write - my ears have been listening to music from the 40s and 50s, and there is no anochronism there at all - for me. Time now has folds.
Rob