Who would dare claim that happiness doesn’t exist?
This thought might spring to mind for anyone arriving on our planet today, the third rock from the Sun among countless galaxies. A visitor’s surprise would be understandable, especially if their first glimpse of Earth came from social media. In this realm, there are no sad or troubled humans. Everyone is laughing or smiling, showcasing their best selves, the most attractive and entertaining versions of their lives. Their days seem filled with travel, dancing, concerts, dining, and celebrations. Social media platforms overrun with photos and videos bear witness to such joy, often sprinkled with quotes and musings attributed—without scrutiny—to various writers, thinkers, and artists. Many of these attributions would make the true authors roll over in their graves, as they’re credited with words they never wrote or spoke.
Before the explosion of social media—a phenomenon that gained momentum at the start of this century—people shared their joys, sorrows, uncertainties, hopes, and discomforts in private or within the confines of trusted friendships. They might express these feelings in therapy sessions, through personal journals, or in reserved moments of reflection. Those days seem lost to the past. Now, privacy has diminished, and with it, intimacy. There was no coercion in this transition; rather, it was a voluntary, even pleasurable handover of sacred personal space essential for mental and spiritual health. The entire world has turned into a spectacle reminiscent of the cynical reality show Big Brother, echoing George Orwell’s creation in 1984. Everyone spies on everyone else, willingly allowing themselves to be spied upon. The screens and social media act as confessionals, where all traces of modesty, shame, and discretion vanish. Individuals present themselves as products, seeking validation through likes and comments that affirm their existence, as if a pandemic of doubt had swept through, leaving them questioning whether they are even alive. There is an almost compulsive need to confirm one’s existence through a carefully curated, incomplete image, where appearing joyful, fun-loving, and happy becomes essential.
Authoritarians disapprove of this trend.
Professional and critical journalism is a cornerstone of democracy, which is why it troubles those who consider themselves the sole bearers of truth.
This is the impression a newcomer would have upon entering the current world. They would see a facade of happiness where everyone seems to thrive, studies, and works harmoniously. Everyone appears fortunate and wise in matters of love, learning from their experiences while growing and discovering themselves with the clarity of an Eastern guru and the humility of a generous saint. However, these images do not reflect an objective external view; instead, they are the eyes that observe themselves. Photographs no longer capture moments as seen by another person, in a specific instance in our lives. The "other" seems unnecessary now. We exist in a selfie world—projecting how we want to be perceived, smiling at our outstretched arm holding a phone. The device, akin to the magic mirror from the Snow White tale, assures us that we are beautiful, happy, and lovable, creating an enviable persona. This phone serves as the lake Narcissus leaned over to admire the image we’ve built of ourselves.
The myth of Narcissus is particularly relevant in these times. As Robert Graves recounts, Narcissus was the son of the blue nymph Liríope, who had intimate relations with the river god Cephissus. The wise and blind seer Tiresias warned Liríope that Narcissus would live for many years unless he saw his own reflection. By the age of sixteen, Narcissus was a breathtaking young man, captivating everyone around him—both men and women—who would throw themselves at his feet. Enamored by his imagined beauty, he rejected them harshly, deeming them unworthy. Among his spurned admirers was Echo, a nymph punished to only repeat what others said due to her distracting storytelling. When Narcissus went hunting, Echo followed the hope of hearing him speak. Isolated from his group, he called out, “Is anyone here?” Echo replied, “Here.” Inviting her to come, they engaged in a false dialogue until Narcissus rejected her, saying he would rather die than be with her. Heartbroken, Echo vanished, leaving only her voice behind.
Narcissus continued to turn away love until one admirer, Aminias, killed himself, calling on the gods for revenge. Artemis, the goddess of the hunt, heard his plea, and during a subsequent hunt, Narcissus leaned over a lake to drink, saw his reflection, and instantly fell in love. As he reached for the image, he fell in and drowned. From that spot, the white flower with a red crown known as the Narcissus first bloomed.
Narcissism, a rampant pathology of our time, revives this myth, which, like all great myths, addresses enduring themes of humanity. These archetypal stories, as Carl Jung described them, adapt to the culture and social context of their time. Narcissus’s experience demonstrates how intensely we can lose ourselves in self-obsession. As we lean closer to our reflections—whether in mirrors or the screens we hold—the surrounding world fades away until only we remain in focus. In contemporary society, this experience is commonplace, with millions engaging in this self-absorption without needing a physical mirror. The screens of our phones and computers dominate our attention, creating a self-made image we present to attract admiration, as our real self flounders in the background.
The true other, the flesh-and-blood person, requires time and space in our lives. Their presence demands we set aside other interests. Real human interaction rules out the possibility of multitasking; it calls for social skills, receptive listening, genuine empathy, patience, and acceptance. No matter how well we think we know them, the authentic other can always surprise us.
In contrast, after each brief virtual interaction, life resumes as usual. The screen remains a comforting barrier, allowing us to "seen" messages, block unwanted contacts, or discard disapproved content. No matter how simple the actual encounter, we return altered by even the briefest meeting, leaving with an emotion that wasn’t there before. Each real engagement fosters transformation and nourishes our bodies and psyches. In comparison, online interactions—like chats or social media posts—are mere junk food for the soul.
When others become mere silhouettes drifting by, “we” lose significance. A narcissistic culture thrives on words like “I,” “my,” “mine,” or “me.” Each person immerses themselves in their image, dedicated to reproducing it at all costs. There is no longer a need to reflect in a lake—selfies and social media platforms serve that purpose, acting as reflective surfaces. New practices encourage self-love, pushing us to prioritize self-interest over others, effectively erasing the other’s significance, reducing them to a means to personal ends.
Italian psychoanalyst Massimo Recalcati, with his sharp insights and exquisite writing, suggests that this widespread narcissism has led to a personality disorder. It can be summed up by the motto, “Looking good is all that matters; understanding myself is enough; I won’t be impacted by others’ problems.” Recalcati identifies two major deceptions created by our time. The first is the narcissistic belief in selfish liberty, promoting individualistic worship of the self without acknowledgment of our interdependence. The second deception elevates novelty, urging us to resist attachments, perpetually craving what we don’t possess, believing happiness will come once we obtain it.
Even with an abundance of concerts, major sports events, and social gatherings, tourism has turned predatory. Crowds congregate, snapping selfies at culturally or historically rich locations they hardly appreciate. Ultimately, these events host lonely throngs. Sociologist David Riesman coined the term "lonely crowds" in his 1950 book, investigating the transition from production-based capitalism to consumption-based capitalism, which produced a class of individuals who relinquished their autonomy for consumer security.
Even amidst these crowding experiences, true connection remains absent. Each person stands isolated in their solipsistic bubble, pretending to engage. While technology has shrunk the globe into a global village, seeking to unify cultures, it has not deepened personal relationships; it has separated them. In this hyper-connected era, people now live vicariously through screens. It’s possible to travel virtually, to participate in massive events from home, and to work without encountering coworkers. We know faces and profiles—often unverifiable—but never truly experience the others’ physical presence or essence.
What might an outsider observe about human behavior, akin to an entomologist studying insects? They would see a façade of happiness, crafted like theatrical scenery. The phrase "All good" echoes repeatedly, serving as a barrier against revealing true emotions.
Inside, emptiness reigns—a vacuum of existential angst, a condition defined by Viktor Frankl as the widespread neurosis of our time. Symptoms of this emptiness manifest as boredom and indifference. Ironically, these feelings compel obsessive displays of joy and addiction to various entertainment formats. Boredom stems from a lack of engagement, while indifference signifies the absence of vital initiative. Frankl lamented society’s disinterest in the world and its failure to inspire transformative action. After many traditions that once encouraged genuine engagement faded away—perhaps the 1960s was the last decade of significant collective interest—people find themselves without direction or purpose, retreating into safety nets provided by technology while remaining trapped by the demands of consumerism.
The ideology of well-being pushes away collective passions, promising to eliminate all pain—be it the pain of limitation, the knowledge of mortality, or the discomfort of uncertainty, which are intrinsic to life. This pseudo-happiness often isolates us, grouping us in tribes of like-minded people. Social media fuels this highlighting of sameness, stifling divergence, which can provoke thought and accountability. Without diversity or the need to confront real-world scenarios, there is no genuine freedom—only illusions of it. Isolated individuals in controlled environments provide a wealth of data to the digital economy, allowing companies to profit without the risks historically faced.
Speaking of these controlled environments reveals both virtual spaces (like social media) and physical events (like concerts and fairs). Each crowded situation or individual isolation offers temporary relief from the deep-seated pain of existential void. Yet, even as some resist this reality, it must be acknowledged that soul pain mirrors physical pain—a signal of unmet needs. Analgesics that dull physical discomfort maintain a façade of normalcy until the underlying issues worsen. Similarly, the psychological band-aids promising relief from existential dread obscure the true nature of happiness. Suffering is an inherent component of existence, and everything has its complementary opposite. We can recognize joy only because we understand its contrast with pain.
Wherever suffering is hidden, happiness becomes a mere facade. As Korean philosopher Byung-Chul Han claims, life, however comfortable it appears, may dissolve into mere endurance, filled with the anxiety of unknowing. Living for survival alone generates greater fear of dying.
The hypothetical visitor may perceive joyful people, but they will witness a sea of solitude—solitary beings, even in physical and virtual congregations.
The Loneliness of the Happy
By Sergio Sinay
Sergio Sinay, a writer and journalist, contributes to PERFIL and La Nación, as well as Sophia online. He won the La Nación Essay Prize in 1993. With a background in Sociology and training in Gestalt and Existential Psychology, he has directed numerous national and international media outlets, including the Sunday magazine of the Clarín newspaper and the Expansión magazine in Mexico. He served as editor-in-chief for Spanish editions of Reader’s Digest. Sinay gives lectures and seminars in Argentina, Chile, Uruguay, Mexico, and Spain. His work has been translated into English, Italian, French, and Portuguese.
Source: https://www.perfil.com/noticias/domingo/ser-feliz-era-esto.phtml
