“For various reasons, many forms of introspection lost all of their beauty when the therapeutic industry capitalized on them. The therapeutic narrative makes us believe that there is something inside us we can discover, a secret kernel, a source code of the ego, a shining or shocking truth. A nonsocial real self that we can live up to in order to feel again, live again. But the more we dive into our selves and the more obsessed we get in finding something alive inside, the harder we try to finally feel something instead of infinite boredom, the less we are able to feel. Richard Sennett tells you so, Eva Illouz tells you so, Haruki Murakami tells you so, in an interesting metaphor, in the Wind Up Bird Chronicles: What can we expect after having unraveled all the layers of our social identity, but a void, an empty dark well without water?”