Value

"What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?"
"Hamlet, Act 2 scene 2"

Or in other words "My Internal Dialog". And many others or Shakespeare's words would not be resonating centuries later. Unsaid in this however is that our view of humanity is our view of our selves. The glory and wonder of our existence is our hope for ourselves. Bleak and wretched is our fear of our selves. The ebbing and flowing tide of the evaluation is the power that drives us into many of our life's bitter battles. The search for God. Our preening quest for the desire of others. The need to have the people we share this time with acknowledge the uniqueness and correctness of our thoughts.
I think the question "Does My life and all of the experiences the make it's composition have any value, any meaning?" is a simple one. If all silk in the east were yours or all the gold of the Aztecs fell into your hands; the only thing you will ever really touch is the texture of your own thoughts. The object that represents the entirety of your experience is the singularity of existence. Anything of which there is only one of has infinite value.