The night descends upon the city not like a curtain, but like a heavy, velvety silence that swallows the contours of the familiar world, leaving only the radiance of the screens—these small, cold altars before which we bow our heads in search of something we cannot even name. In this twilight hour, when the border between day and sleep thins, I catch myself standing on the shore of a boundless digital river, gazing at my reflection; but what I see is not my face, but a fragmented projection, a hologram of an "I" that I have constructed in order to be loved, or at least noticed, in the world of incorporeal signals. Here, in this space of zeros and ones, begins my quiet, yet insistent journey toward the core of pain and hope—a journey from digital pretense to the sacred ground of authenticity.
I write this with a feeling of slight dizziness, as if I have just awakened from a long, intoxicating slumber. We live in an age of unprecedented connectivity, and yet, we have never been more alone in our essence, more detached from the root of our own existence. The psychoanalytic view would recognize in this state the classic splitting of the ego—the creation of a "False Self," a digital double that functions flawlessly across social networks, while the "True Self" shrinks into the corner of the psyche, hungry for reality, thirsty for touch. This is the tragedy of digital depersonalization: we have become the architects of our own prisons, built from likes, filters, and algorithmic approvals. But beyond this noise, beyond the pixelated mask, the soul waits. It is there, breathing beneath the surface, ancient and patient, longing to be heard not through the screen, but through the silence of the heart.
I ask myself: what does it mean to be authentic in a world that rewards the performative? Authenticity is not merely a social pose or an aesthetic choice; it is a profoundly spiritual act, an act of courage to be present in one’s own skin, without the armour of irony or the defence of virtual distance. The soul is that instance which cannot be digitized; it is the space of the sacred, which resists our reduction to data. In this sense, the return to the self is a form of resistance, a quiet rebellion against the culture of distraction. When I speak of awakening the "dormant soul," I mean that moment of crystalline clarity in which we realize that we are something more than the sum of our profiles, something infinitely more complex and beautiful than the algorithm trying to predict our desires.
I examine the mechanisms of my own escape. How often do I reach for my phone in moments of boredom, anxiety, or emptiness? This is the modern equivalent of fleeing the shadow—the refusal to look our own demons and deficiencies in the eye. Psychoanalysis teaches us that only through the integration of the shadow can we achieve wholeness. The digital world offers us an endless mirror that, however, does not reflect depth, but only the surface; it flatters us, but it does not know us. The real work, the work of the spirit, begins where the screen goes dark. It begins in self-reflection—in that terrifying yet fertile silence where we can hear our own pulse and recognize our own needs, unfiltered by the expectations of others. Mindfulness is not merely a relaxation technique; it is an ethical imperative, a way to reclaim sovereignty over our attention, which is the most valuable currency of our time.
I recall moments of genuine, piercing connection—eyes meeting other eyes, a hand touching another hand, a silence shared between two people where no words are needed. This is the spiritual essence of authentic connection: the experience of the other not as an object for consumption or validation, but as a subject, as another universe we have the honour of encountering. Digital communication often deprives us of this sacredness; it turns communication into a transaction, an exchange of information packets, stripped of the scent, the warmth, and the vibration of living presence. The depersonalization of online exchange is dangerous not only because it makes us indifferent, but because it allows us to forget that on the other side of the screen stands a person who, like us, struggles, loves, suffers, and hopes. The longing for unity, for merging, which is at the heart of every spiritual path, is distorted in the digital sphere into a superficial connectivity that leaves the soul even hungrier.
To build bridges across this chasm, we must re-learn the art of vulnerability. Vulnerability is the door through which grace enters our lives; it is the recognition that we are not perfect, that we are incomplete, that we need one another. Active listening—that deep, contemplative attention to the other—is a form of prayer. It says: "I see you. I hear you. You matter." In a world of quick reactions and emojis, to give someone your full, undivided attention is an act of radical love. Physical gatherings, the sharing of space and time, become rituals of restoration, places where the digital fog dissipates and we can once again see each other's faces, illuminated not by the blue light of the display, but by the inner fire of the encounter.
Thinking about the future, I feel a mixture of anxiety and hope. Technology itself is not the enemy; it is a mirror of our collective consciousness. The possibilities for digital identity verification, transparent algorithms, and ethical regulations are not merely technical solutions; they are the expression of our evolving will for truth. The future of authenticity depends on our ability to spiritualize the machine, to introduce ethics into the code, to demand spaces where truth is protected from manipulation. I envision a world where the digital space is a sanctuary of knowledge and connection, not a marketplace of illusions. A world where we can be certain that the voice we hear is genuine, that the intention behind the words is pure. This is a vision for a new humanism, where technology serves the growth of the soul, not its distraction.
There is something deeply melancholic in realizing how much we have lost in the pursuit of digital perfection, yet also something immensely inspiring in the possibility of reclaiming it. The path forward is not in the complete denial of the digital world—that would be an escape into the past—but in its transformation through the power of our presence. We are called to be the custodians of authenticity, to carry the light of consciousness into every virtual room we enter. This requires constant vigilance, a continuous questioning: "Is this real? Does this come from love or from fear? Does this feed my soul or just my ego?"
Every day is an opportunity for a new beginning, for rewriting the inner code. I listen to myself and discover that beneath the layers of digital noise flows a deeper river—the river of memory, of faith, of primordial humanity. It is silent, yet mighty. It carries the waters of change. The psychoanalytic truth is that we continuously create ourselves in the process of interaction with the world; the spiritual truth is that in our essence, we are eternal and unchangeable, sparks of a great Fire. Our task is to unite these two truths—to live in the world of changes with the anchor of eternity in our heart.
Thus, in this late hour, as I write these lines, I choose to be here. I choose imperfection over the filter. I choose slowness over speed. I choose the risk of being misunderstood over the security of the mask. This is my confession and my prayer: let us be less digital phantoms and more living souls. Let us contribute to the evolution of a world where technology does not divide us, but helps us to see the divine spark more clearly in each other. The path is steep, the way is narrow, and often lost in the fog, but the light of authenticity, once ignited, cannot be extinguished. It shines in the cracks of our being, reminding us that even in the most digital era, the heart remains analogue, beating to the rhythm of the universe, seeking its home in the truth.
I am left with this thought, like a warm stone in my palm—the hope that every return to the self, every stripping away of the mask, is a step toward the healing of the world. The silence now is different—it is not empty, but full of presence. And in this silence, I finally meet myself.
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