Social overload, mental aphasia
Recent data from the Global Mental Health Alliance reveals that 76% of young people across 18 countries surveyed express anxiety about offline social interactions, and over half admit they prefer to express their true feelings through text rather than words. A new form of "social aphasia" is spreading globally—people are connecting in more ways than ever before, yet their hearts are more distant than ever before.
Nila stood in the entrance of a "Silent Café" in Tokyo's Shibuya district, deeply moved by the scene before her. Over twenty young people sat facing each other, but no one spoke. They wrote intently on paper, passing slips to one another, occasionally flashing knowing smiles as their eyes met. The only sound in the room was the scraping of pens across paper, a sound that resembled a long-lost, heartfelt conversation.
"This is our most popular theme cafe," explained Yumi Sato, a young sociologist and local partner. "Here, all electronic devices are banned, and communication can only be done with the most basic tools: pen and paper."
"Why would a store like this become so popular in a place like Shibuya?" Nila couldn't help but ask.
"Because young people say they're tired of the endless 'performative socializing,'" Sato sighs. "On social media, every word has to be carefully crafted, every photo meticulously edited. They crave authentic connection, but they've forgotten how to speak."
When socializing becomes a carefully orchestrated performance, the true self is forced to retreat to the background.
This finding coincides with the data from the foundation's global survey. In an emergency cross-regional video conference, leaders shared worrying trends:
Data presented by the head of the North American region showed that "'social burnout' has become a new excuse for taking time off from work. Employees admit they would rather work overtime than participate in mandatory team-building activities."
The European report is even more alarming: "Over 60% of young people admit to frequently checking their phones at parties because they 'don't know how to have a deep conversation lasting more than ten minutes.'"
What worries Nila most is what she's discovered in Southeast Asia: "This social anxiety is spreading to younger children. Many elementary and middle school students are already unable to make simple eye contact, let alone express complex emotions."
After listening to the report, Li Xiaoyu pointed out the core of the problem: "This isn't a simple decline in social skills, but a deeper kind of 'emotional aphasia'—people are still speaking, but the emotional intensity and authenticity of their words are drastically declining."
To truly understand this problem, Nila decided to experience several new "social alternatives" for herself.
The first event she attended was a "Strangers' Dinner." Eight strangers sat around a long table, and the organizers gave each person a topic card. The card Nila drew read, "Please share a small, touching story you've experienced recently."
The suffocating silence lasted for three full minutes. Nila could hear the hum of the air conditioner and saw attendees nervously fiddling with their cups. Finally, a young woman with delicate makeup spoke timidly: "I...I saw a video on Instagram yesterday of a stray cat being adopted. I was very moved."
"Have you ever encountered something like this in real life?" Nila asked softly.
The girl was stunned for a moment, her eyes began to wander: "It seems... no." Her voice became smaller and smaller, as if she was ashamed of her answer.
In her subsequent sharing, Nila discovered with heartache that most people's "touching" experiences came from secondhand experiences—short videos, WeChat Moments, Weibo. When asked about their own experiences, they seemed at a loss for words and confused, like someone who has long relied on navigation and is suddenly asked to find their way.
When life experiences are overly indirect, emotional expressions inevitably become empty and formatted.
At the other extreme is Nila's experience of "ultimately efficient social interaction." At a promotional event for a high-end business social app, the young and promising founder proudly showcased their algorithm: "Our system accurately matches people who might be mutually useful, and each meeting is strictly limited to 18 minutes. When the time is up, a reminder rings to ensure that every second is not wasted."
Nila tried this kind of "efficient networking" once. For 18 minutes, like a checklist, she and the other person exchanged business cards, company backgrounds, and business scopes, even agreeing on a time to meet again. But when the shrill ring rang and they both stood up to leave, she suddenly felt a sense of emptiness—she hadn't even noticed the other person's habitual movements while speaking.
"Is this really social?" she wrote in her diary that day. "Or is it just two people scanning each other's QR codes?"
Even more worrying was what she discovered at school. At a prestigious Tokyo middle school, veteran psychologist Ms. Yamada showed her a stack of student assignments: "Look, these kids can chat with over a dozen people simultaneously on LINE, but in real life, they can't look anyone in the eye. Most frightening of all, they've started using emoticons to replace genuine emotional expression—not because they don't want to, but because they've lost the ability to discern their true feelings."
A deep sense of helplessness lingered in Mr. Yamada's voice: "We are raising a generation of children who are adept at using emotional symbols but have lost the ability to feel them."
With these poignant discoveries in mind, the Nila team began to conceive of solutions. They realized that simply calling for "put down your phone" was as futile as telling a drowning person, "Don't breathe." They needed to create a completely new social experience that would allow people to rediscover the power and warmth of real connection.
The "Deep Connection Plan" was born. The core of this plan is not to fight against technology, but to rebuild a "slow social" ecosystem:
First, they identified and certified a number of "deep conversation spaces" around the world. These spaces can be corner cafes, neighborhood bookstores, or even shaded areas in parks. Their common characteristics are: a comfortable and natural environment, encouragement of genuine communication, and strict restrictions on electronic device use.
Secondly, they developed a set of "Heart Dialogue Cards" with questions carefully designed by psychologists, starting from the simplest to the most complex, gently guiding people to open up their hearts. For example:
"When was the last time you laughed?"
"What is the biggest fear you have ever overcome?"
"If the world were to end tomorrow, who would you most want to be with?"
Most importantly, they trained a group of "conversation facilitators." These facilitators aren't professional counselors, but ordinary people who are adept at listening and asking questions. Their role isn't to provide guidance, but to provide companionship—helping participants overcome initial awkwardness and find their own personal rhythm of communication.
True connection always begins with the sense of security gained after removing the disguise.
When the initiative was first launched, it was met with considerable skepticism and ridicule. Criticisms ranged from "This is too contrived" to "How can modern people spend two hours just chatting?" Even within the team, some worried about whether such an activity would truly be viable in this era of efficiency.
A turning point occurred during a pilot event in Osaka. A young programmer named Kenta, dragged along by his girlfriend, was on pins and needles at the start of the event. He kept checking his watch, his body language expressing resistance. With the facilitator's gentle encouragement, when the topic shifted to "most precious childhood memories," the previously silent Kenta suddenly spoke up, recounting his childhood carpentry experiences with his grandfather.
"Grandpa said a good carpenter must listen to the sound of the wood..." Kenta's voice started softly, then became more fluent, his eyes lighting up. "We spent the entire summer making a small chair. The smell of the shavings flying, the feel of the wood taking shape in my hands..."
He paused, his eyes slightly moist. "I haven't thought about these things in a long time. I'm so busy writing code, attending meetings, and answering emails every day that I almost forgot I'm still someone who can do handicrafts."
At that moment, the entire atmosphere in the space shifted. The other participants were no longer unrelated strangers, but companions who had witnessed a shared thawing of the soul. That evening, Kenta exchanged contact information with two other participants and agreed to meet at the craft workshop together the following month.
Even more surprising is that this seemingly inefficient activity has actually created a new type of social network. By sharing real stories and emotions, participants forge connections deeper than those found in typical social gatherings. Many have found entrepreneurial partners, close friends, and even lifelong partners.
Three months later, the "Deep Connections Project" has expanded to 20 cities worldwide. What moved Nila most wasn't the growth in numbers, but the heartfelt feedback:
"Thank you for reminding me that conversation is not about achieving a goal, but about understanding another soul."
"For the first time, I realized that after removing my 'personality', I became even more popular."
"The tears I shed here are real, and so are the smiles. It turns out it feels so good to be seen in the flesh."
At the project's final meeting, Nila shared her insights: "We always thought technology connected us more closely. But in reality, we might have sacrificed depth for breadth. True healing comes from helping people regain that precious experience of being fully seen, and fully seeing others."
Li Xiaoyu added with a smile on the other end of the video: "So, what we're doing is actually very simple—in a world obsessed with quick results, we're reserving some space for sincerity and restoring the soul to its natural rhythm."
Late at night, Nila walked alone on the streets of Tokyo. The early winter breeze was chilly, and the streetlights cast a long shadow on her. Looking at the people hurrying by, glued to their phones, she knew this pandemic of "spiritual aphasia" was far from over. But at least, they were beginning to carve out oases in the digital desert, where the soul could breathe freely.
On the way back to the hotel, she received a message with a photo from an early participant: a group of young people who once had social barriers were having a lively conversation in a traditional izakaya, with a gleam in everyone's eyes that was never seen in front of a mobile phone screen.
Nila saved the photo and wrote a line below it:
When the soul learns to speak again, even silence will become warm.
She knew that tomorrow there would be more souls waiting to be awakened. But tonight, let them enjoy this long-lost, true connection. In this overly noisy world, being able to hear the voice of the soul again is a miracle in itself.
When the speed of communication exceeds the rhythm of emotional brewing, our words become only echoes without warmth.
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