Experience is not made up out of experiences, and yet what you look for is an experience of experience. Experience like an ill-fitting suit of clothes. Sartor resartus!  If experience suddenly became that of another, would you know? And how would you know? It is never entirely your own, the experience of others is woven into it. And yet you are uniformly spread out over the woven field of experience, you never find some element becoming experience from a prior state of merely being at hand. But in the ongoingness of experience what has been is continually cast off. You are constrained to be within experience but you do not inhabit it. There is a gap which might be felt as a bracing freedom, as if you know yourself to be superior to your experience, but also might be felt as an unsatisfactoriness, as if you are oppressed by the narrowness and conditioned nature and inescapability of it. The latter is perhaps truer to the essence of it; it has a sort of historical substance, heavy, evocative, and stale, blurred in time.