The layers of our society

 

Sometimes I think our society resembles a vast ship built on several levels — each floor with its own light, its own darkness, its own illusions of safety. The layers of our society reveal different destinies, different masks, different wounds stretched along the social ladder like unspoken truths. And when a collective crisis comes — usually financial, though not only — I begin to sense a strange tilting, a quiet, almost imperceptible shift of weight. As if the Titanic of our shared fate begins to lean, and the water starts flooding the lowest decks, where people are most vulnerable, closest to the cold bottom, to the first line of disaster.

And I see in this not just a social mechanism, but the illness of a single shared organism — a painful reminder of how our collective body suffers when balance is broken. Just as in the human psyche, so in society — when some parts are neglected, when some voices are suppressed, a symptom inevitably appears. Psychoanalysis would say that the repressed always returns — as fear, as division, as a painful displacement of guilt and responsibility. And the spiritual gaze would whisper that where there is no connection, there is no life.

I have seen how the lower decks begin to sink, how people struggle to stay afloat, how seemingly small crises become avalanches that sweep away entire lives. And it feels to me that our society — like a mind in crisis — begins to fragment, to divide, to search for someone to blame. But the truth is different: when one deck is drowning, we are all in the water, only some are still deluding themselves that they are dry.

As long as the upper decks are saved at the expense of the lower ones — there is no integrity there. No morality, no natural hierarchy of what is good. This is not just injustice; it is a pathology of the social organism, a collapse of the natural order in which the strong protect the weak. When strength does not protect, it destroys; when power does not heal, it makes ill.

Sometimes I hear arguments that all of this is karmic. That people experience destinies designed to cleanse their souls, that every pain has a root we do not always remember. And there is something in me that understands this language, because sorrow sometimes carries a prophetic light. But there is also something else — deeper, more restless, more human: not every victim is karmic, not every suffering is deserved. There are people who fall under the blow of someone else’s choice, someone else’s greed, someone else’s indifference. They become sacrificial victims of a broken balance, of shattered ethics, of absent care.

And precisely this rupture — this painful absence of reciprocity — is what makes the structure fall apart. When there is no connection between the decks, when there is no pulse running through the whole ship, then the Titanic inevitably sinks.

In recent years I often ask myself: what is the real salvation? What is the thing that could restore equilibrium? And as I write these quiet diary reflections, I feel that the answer somehow lives in the silence, in that inner voice that does not shout but whispers: truth. Every person, in every life-story, is called to choose truth, to stop the motion of the lie — with the courage to remain faithful to oneself, even when it costs dearly.

Psychoanalysis explains this as an act of inner integrity — the moment in which the Self refuses compromise with the untrue, with fragmentation, with its own illusions. And the spiritual path describes it as standing before God, before the pure light of conscience. And the two paths resemble each other: both require a return to the essential core of one’s soul, to that primal honesty that we often silence out of fear of being exposed.

Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I imagine this tilted Titanic as an image of humanity itself — tired, fragmented, frightened, thirsty for love. As if we have lost the connection between us, that subtle ray of light that passes through the different layers of existence. As if we forget that we are parts of one body — inseparable, interdependent, shaped from the same fragile substance.

And I recall the words of an old spiritual teacher who said that every division is a disease, and every connection — a form of healing. And the more I observe the world around me, the more I see how true this is: fragmentation kills, and wholeness brings life. Even within one’s own psyche, when there is a split between desires, fears, and moral orientation, a person begins to suffer. And what then of a society divided into castes, layers, impassable chasms?

Perhaps the real crisis is not financial, nor political, but existential and spiritual. Perhaps the ship is sinking not because the water is coming in, but because we have forgotten how to be a crew to one another.

And despite everything, I cannot let go of hope. It does not come like lightning, but like a soft light spreading across my inner walls. There are moments in which I feel that humanity is moving toward something — toward a new level, a new awareness, a new standing upright. And I believe that the more people choose truth — the quiet, invisible, yet profoundly transformative truth — the more we work to restore balance.

Balance is not only social; it is internal. Equilibrium is not achieved only through changes in systems, but through changes in consciousness. This is the quiet paradox — that the world heals from the inside out, just like a person. That if enough souls choose honesty over convenience, humility over pride, love over fear, the ship can change its course.

And in this inner lantern I see a simple law: the more people stand against the lie, the more light enters our common path. Then injustices begin to dissolve, the silent victims begin to find their voice, and the social organism starts to breathe again. Then restoration is not a punishment, but a renewal. Health is not utopia, but a return to the natural rhythm of community.

And so, in the late evenings, when I write these thoughts as in a diary of the soul, I feel something like an invitation. Something like a calling. A gentle yet steady truth: each of us is a deck of this ship, and each bears their own responsibility — not to save themselves alone, but to preserve the connection, to preserve the pathways between the levels, to preserve our humanity.

For if we remain connected — not through fear but through love — the Titanic can become a temple.
And if we fall apart, if we surrender to fragmentation, if we allow the lie to uphold structures already hollow — then the ship is doomed.

And in this quiet twilight meditation I choose to believe in the first.

And I write:
“Truth is the compass.
Connection — the lifeboat.
And the courage to be honest — the only light that does not sink.”