Together Alone

 

What Does It Mean to Be Alone in a Crowd?

Being connected to a thousand people at the same time while not being able to truly touch anyone is something humans are not accustomed to. Imagine: you are walking among thousands of people, yet no one touches you. No one even accidentally brushes past you. No matter what you do, you can’t make eye contact with anyone. You are like a ghost among people. Or perhaps everyone wandering in that space is a membrane or a hologram.

No matter what you do on social media, you can’t genuinely touch anyone’s life. You are at the centre. You are seen by everyone, yet held by no one. Even if you are seen, you disappear right there. For a moment, you may shine in other minds, but then you immediately fade. And this truth, no matter how smart or social you are, leaves you alone even among other people.

Today, humans are more connected than at any point in history. Before the internet, you could only touch another person’s life to the extent that they told you about it. In the age of the telephone, you would call someone or write a letter. Then the internet came, followed by the spread of social media, and everyone became aware of everyone else’s lives. Static images gave way to live streams; now everything is visible in real time.

When you open YouTube, TikTok, or a similar platform, you see hundreds of thousands of people showcasing their lives. This is something that has never happened in human history before. And the human subconscious is not prepared for it. Because here, a human ceases to be a subject and instead becomes an object displayed in a showcase: a commodity.

When you combine this with areas like pornography, sports, and politics, what emerges is a kind of circus where anything can happen at any moment, where anyone can sleep with anyone else, all taboos are broken, and the mental grounding that once sustained people collapses. That is the dark side. The bright side, however, is that amid all this, many people are beginning to become aware of it.

This connectivity based on imagery is neither wholly good nor wholly bad. But what is certain is this: for the human species, this represents a transitional era whose consequences will only be understood once a new form of meaning has replaced the old one.

Connection or Relationship?

Why Texting Is Not Intimacy

It’s two in the morning. An old friend is messaging me:
“No, it’s not working. I can’t do it.”

We have been texting for a while. We continuously exchange “data” about each other’s lives. He talks about loneliness; he says no one understands him. He sends me his inbox: dozens of men from social media have written, “I want to meet you.” While he shares this, he adds thoughtless laughing emojis under each message. I realise I do the same. It’s as if instead of truly expressing our feelings, we soften them with emojis.

But this person has no real connection with those who wrote. Even if they replied, even if they met, there would be no shared value or narrative they could build together. Everything would have to be “produced” from scratch.

Because most people, on average, do not build relationships but consume what’s available. They sit down to fill their hunger; once they are full, they leave. There is a connection, but no contact.

I’m not saying everything was perfect before. Every era has its own problems. But still, this must be understood: texting or merely being aware of each other does not mean you are in a real relationship with a person.

Because a relationship means, whether good or bad, producing a shared meaning. Texting, on the other hand, often equates to just filling the emptiness.

And by proximity, I don’t mean behaving warmly or appearing sincere. People no longer let others into their inner worlds, because many people actually don’t have an inner world. What exists is a circulation of scattered exhaustion, descriptions, and complaints in the public.

The Collapse of Intimacy in the Age of Visibility

In a World Where Everyone Is on Stage, No One Wants to Stay Backstage

Try remembering the times before this — when people weren’t visible every moment. People would put on their masks before even leaving the house, before entering society. Think of it like a theatre: once upon a time, each person had a stage and a backstage. The stage was the face they showed to others, the backstage was the state no one saw: where they tired, unravelled, were silent, and gathered themselves. A person would stay backstage, alone with themselves, and only after gathering strength there would they step onto the stage.

Today, the stage is everywhere. When you open your phone, point the camera, or write a sentence, you are on stage again. But there is no backstage anymore. Because you think you cannot exist without being visible. If you are invisible, you are considered erased.

Therefore, instead of listening to yourself, you display yourself. Instead of turning inward, you flow outward.

Intimacy collapses here. Because intimacy begins backstage. A person must first be honest with themselves. Then they can open up to another.

But on stage, everyone plays a role. Everyone tries to look strong, happy, and desirable. No one carries their “incomplete” self. No one shares their vulnerability.

And even if someone does share it, the comments underneath reveal how people in social spaces transform into creatures like hyenas. Because no one wants to appear weak, be seen as weak, or see weakness in others.

Everyone is a showcase. That’s why today people touch not each other, but each other’s showrooms. We feel close not to a person but to their image. Not to a soul, but to a profile. Visibility increases but contact decreases. We meet, but we don’t encounter.

When there is no backstage, a person’s inner world collapses, because an inner world means silence, solitude, and confrontation. Meanwhile, visibility means constant speaking, sharing, and showing. A person now strives not to understand themselves, but to present themselves. And the more they present themselves, the farther they move from themselves.

This is reality. That is why in this era, intimacy is not a matter of character but of space:
In a world without backstage, real relationships do not happen.

Scrolling Addiction

Scroll as a Form of Escape from Reality

You and I both do it. Some of us while away hours mindlessly scrolling through stupid reels videos; some of us spend time listening to pointless livestreams from content creators who add nothing of value. Most of us have excuses. And for many, it doesn’t feel right to just sit and read a book or spend time with a partner or friend.

But we must realise this: scrolling is not a habit; it is a form of escape. Every time our finger touches the screen, we are not seeking something — we are fleeing from something: boredom, emptiness, restlessness, or being alone with ourselves.

Because when we stop, we feel something. And feeling something is the hardest thing in this age.

When you scroll, you don’t think. You don’t feel. You just consume. Images, sounds, faces, lives rush past you. You are not flowing; they are. You are just being exposed.

Scrolling is a kind of anaesthesia for emotion. But it has a cost: over time, a person loses their inner voice.

When you feel bored, you scroll.
When you feel lonely, you scroll.
When you are hurt, ashamed, or empty, you scroll.

Every emotion has a corresponding movement: scroll up.

But every escape pushes you further from yourself.

You think you are consuming something while scrolling, but what consumes you is the act itself.

The Emotional Cost of Digital Contact

The Fatigue of Being Constantly “Connected”

I remember the times I lived alone in the village. There was no TV (and even if there was, I didn’t watch it). Social media existed only sporadically, but there was plenty of pure, unmediated contact with the environment. Walking up mountains, working the land, you sometimes think, I am a social being. What am I doing up here alone? Yet even though you are physically “alone,” you are not lonely in your inner world, because you are in a direct relationship with your surroundings. That feels good.

Today, people are not lonely; they are tired. And this tiredness comes more from the mind than the body. Being constantly “on.” Constantly reachable. Constantly feeling the need to respond.

Even when your phone is in your pocket, you are still connected. Even if no notification arrives, you wait. Did I miss something? Did someone write to me? Your mind never fully shuts down.

Digital contact does not rest like real contact. Rather, it consumes. Every message is a tiny demand for attention. Every notification is a small call. Throughout the day, you respond to dozens of small calls. And you are fragmented piece by piece.

When evening comes, you feel exhausted but can’t quite explain why. You didn’t carry anything physical or rush anywhere, but your mind never stopped.

Once upon a time, people knew when they were tired because a task was done or undone. Today tasks never finish, the stream just changes: from message to video, video to news, news to message…

And nowhere do you truly exist.

Thus, digital contact does not feel like contact. It seems like closeness, but carries layer upon layer of distance. Crowded yet cold, intense yet hollow.

And this pulls you away from yourself.

What Is Real Presence?

Physical Proximity or Emotional Encounter?

Now we must understand: being close to someone does not mean being next to them. Being in the same room, sitting at the same table, or being in the same photo — none of these mean real presence.

Real presence means standing in front of someone, unmasked. Unafraid. Without playing a role.

It is not saying I am here, but truly being there.

Today, people are physically close but spiritually distant. We stand side by side, yet we do not make contact. Because contact does not happen through sight, it happens through attention. Not through ears, through intention.

Real presence is not interrupting someone before they finish speaking. It is listening not to reply, but to understand.

How many of us can do that?

How many of us listen not to respond but to grasp the other’s state?

Unfortunately, few.

Thus, presence is not a matter of space — it is a matter of orientation.
To whom are you oriented? Yourself, or another?

When you truly orient toward someone, you enter their world — not to fix them, but to understand them. At that moment, you are there, not in the past and not in another screen.

At that moment, contact happens.
And when contact happens, loneliness subsides.

It’s that simple.

Why Are We So Lonely?

Why Does the System Bring Us Side by Side, Not Together?

Today, people are together yet not with each other. We walk the same streets, sit in the same places, share the same networks, yet we do not make contact, even with those we might know. Why is that? Because the system trains us to stand side by side, not to truly meet.

Standing side by side is safe. There is no risk. No confrontation. You are not required to enter another’s world.

But being together, I mean, truly together, is risky. Because there, reality exists. Flesh, blood, friction, and the possibility of change. And the system does not like that. Because a changing person cannot be controlled.

So the system makes us individuals, but not communities. It allows us to create profiles, but not to build collective identities. It makes us consumers, but not comrades, even though we share the same fate.

The system offers everyone their own small kingdom within their tiny screen. And then no one is compelled to carry another’s weight or be stained by another’s pain. Everyone lives inside their own stream, their own comfort.

But loneliness grows precisely here. Because when a person lives solely for themselves, they do not expand; they contract.

The system puts you amid the crowd, yes, but it blocks genuine contact. It allows visibility, but only if you play by the rules set by algorithms. You may be visible to all, yet you remain in no one’s life.

That is why we are so lonely.

Because they don’t bring us together.
They only place us side by side.

Is There an Exit?

Is There a Possibility of Staying Human in a Digital World?

There is an exit. But it’s not an app setting. Not an update. Not a “detox list.” Because the problem is not the digital world alone, it is the way we relate to it.

To stay human does not mean cutting off connections entirely. It does not mean rejecting visibility. The real question is: Do you know where you really stand, or don’t you?

We must understand this: not every message needs a reply. Not everything must be shared. You do not always have to be visible.

Sometimes a person must retreat to the backstage, to silence, to their inner world, to a place where they can endure themselves. Because to truly encounter another, you must first encounter yourself.

To stay human in a digital world means forming a few genuine contacts, not connecting with everyone, but building deep relationships with a few. It means listening to understand, not to reply.

This is not easy, because the system constantly calls you to the stage. But you don’t have to answer every call.

Sometimes the most human thing is not to be seen.

And perhaps the exit lies exactly there:
In the moment you stop presenting yourself, you begin to truly exist.

There is an exit. But this door is not a solution sold within the system. Not a personal development technique. The problem is not the digital world; it is the system governing it.

The world is increasingly turning into the domain of capitalist corporate states. Our lives become data, our attention becomes a commodity, our relationships become markets. Visibility is sold. Loneliness is managed. A human is reduced to a user, a profile, a customer.

Within this system, “being happy” and “feeling better” are sold as packages. But none of these packages truly frees a person. They only make them more compliant, calmer, and more controllable.

So the solution cannot be a “well-being prescription” inside capitalism. Because this order doesn’t heal, it consumes.

The exit is not in the options the system offers.
The exit is in staying human.

What does it mean to stay human?
It means refusing to turn everything into a commodity. It means resisting the logic that reduces every relationship to utility. It means not presenting yourself as a brand, because you are not a brand; you are not artificial. It means not living your life as a showcase.

Staying human means: Forming genuine, few relationships. Not selling your time. Protecting your attention. Not performing yourself. This is not individual morality; it is a political stance.

Because staying human is something this system does not want.

And perhaps the exit lies right here: At the place where you stop marketing yourself,
where you refuse to sell yourself, where you begin to be truly human.

Another world’s door, perhaps not, but a door within this world,
to being human. And perhaps the first sentence of the revolution of the future is:

“I am not a commodity.”