Some time back, a friend working in psychology shared a thought that stuck with the writer, a perspective often repeated to provoke deeper reflection. It wasn’t a casual remark; it was an invitation to examine the inner structure of life. The dialogue touched on sugar, its benefits and harms, and how solitary living shapes choices made in private spaces. On one hand, there is the freedom to create and undo decisions in moments that belong entirely to the self, without needing to reveal private space to others. On the other hand, loneliness can become a stubborn companion, a form of pain that lingers when unexpected changes turn solitary moments into a long and arduous journey. Sometimes loneliness begins as a preference, yet it can feel like a swamp that traps a person despite repeated efforts to escape.
At that time, the writer was living alone. The phrase almost literally described the situation: absolute solitude. Circumstances had carved out a life where only one person resided on a small farm, a family-style building with three levels and three dwellings, though the other units were owned by others who did not live there or rent them out. The place belonged to the author alone, accompanied only later by cats and a partner, in that order. The surrounding neighborhood was in a state of rapid change, with many traditional townhouses being rehabilitated, and the community felt temporarily sparse and a touch melancholic.
Then the psychologist offered a stark observation: loneliness was becoming a dominant force in a person’s life. Humans are inherently social, tribal beings who weave webs of connection to communicate, support, and interact. In isolation, survival becomes more fragile. For the writer, that moment sparked a profound internal shift, a Himalayan-sized revolution of the mind. The daily work of journalism keeps one among people, in conversation and sharing, yet returning home to solitude raised questions about whether the home environment could become a site of personal violence through self-imposed isolation. The reflection was intense enough to provoke a serious reckoning about the balance between company and solitude and the potential emotional toll of choosing one over the other.
This introspection resurfaced when a recent read echoed those themes. A BBC report from years past described an unsettling pattern in Japan: elderly men and women, overwhelmed by loneliness, resorted to petty theft to secure meals and shelter. The narrative followed their eventual encounter with law enforcement. The goal behind such actions was not greed but the desperate need to be fed, cared for, and, above all, to escape the crushing loneliness that plagued them. Officials noted that the issue had grown sufficiently prominent to command attention across various industries and media. The question lingered: how far would a society go to dehumanize and impoverish its elders, who might rather end their days in a cell than face a life of isolation?
The pressures shaping that reality were clear: insufficient pensions, steep rents, rising costs of food and energy, and a widening gap between self-sufficiency and the burden placed on younger generations. These factors can push the most vulnerable toward choices born of desperation. It is tempting to view Japan as a world apart—rigid, disciplined, and distant from more intimate, familiar day-to-day interactions. Yet the underlying forces have a universal pull that resonates in many places. The technology and systems that should support ease can also, at times, contribute to a sense of inaccessibility. Automated machines, bewildering procedures, and a pace that seems to outrun ordinary life can leave the most vulnerable feeling unseen and unheard. And the fear is not merely about today but about what tomorrow might hold when human connection seems harder to secure than ever before.