The Other within me
Inner life as source of every moral act

 

 

​

​

​

Introduction – The silent absence within

There are moments when you feel something is missing, though you can’t quite name it. A conversation that flows on the surface, yet never lands. A touch that is appropriate, yet cold. A system that functions, yet sees nothing. Only later do you realize what was absent: an inner life. Not a visible flaw, but an emptiness — a lack of real attunement, because there was no genuine presence to attune to.

 

Inner life is not visible, but its absence is palpable. It reveals itself in the subtle gap between what someone says and what you sense is missing. In the chill of strategic behavior, the stiffness of empathic mimicry and the absence of resonance. As if you're facing a mirror that reflects nothing back. No recognition, no wonder and no sense of awe. Only emptiness in the shape of a form.

 

I’ve encountered this — in people, in systems. In relationships where I wasn’t just manipulated, but where I fundamentally missed something: contact with a living inner world. There was behavior, reaction, even affect — but without depth. Without vulnerability. Without that slight tremble in the voice that betrays someone has been touched.

 

I see it mirrored in our engagement with technology: we develop machines that increasingly learn to imitate what is human, yet they feel nothing. They generate language, facial expressions and responses — but no conscience. No inner processing. No moral awareness.

 

And it is precisely here that a crucial question arises:

 

Can one be held responsible if there is no inner world to fall back on?
What does ethics mean if there is no experience of good or evil — only outcome, efficiency, and effect?

 

In this essay, I want to make a case for inner life. Not as a vague notion, but as a moral necessity. Because where inner life is absent, not only empathy disappears — but also responsibility, freedom and conscience. And with that: our very humanity.

 

 

​

Inner life as the origin of ethical awareness

What makes us human? Not our words, not our choices in themselves, but the fact that something within us weighs those words, reflects on those choices and experiences those actions. That inner space — where silence lives, where doubt is allowed, where the other finds entry — is no luxury. It is the ground from which ethics can emerge.

 

Augustine saw the inner life as the place where truth reveals itself. Not as an external authority, but as an inner whisper. For him, the soul was a kind of inner altar where one could question oneself: What is good? What is true? What have I done — and why?

 

Hannah Arendt went a step further. In her analysis of evil, she saw how dangerous things become when that inner dialogue falls silent. Eichmann, the bureaucratic Nazi she studied, was no monster in the classical sense. He was a non-thinking human — someone who had lost contact with an inner conscience and merely executed, followed, "acted" without thinking. For Arendt, thinking was not an intellectual act, but a moral one. Thinking is a conversation with yourself. And those who fail to engage in that conversation are capable of anything.

 

Jung, too, described conscience not as a social skill, but as inner resonance — a voice of the Self. Not moral in the sense of norms, but existential. The experience that something is wrong — not because someone tells you so, but because something inside you chafes, vibrates or aches.

 

Inner life is therefore not a by-product of thinking, but the place where being-human truly unfolds. It is the home of reflection, doubt, conscience and above all: responsiveness. It is there, in the moment we are touched by the other, that responsibility begins. Not as obligation, but as response. A response from within.

 

Without that inner world, behavior becomes superficial. Choices turn into calculations. Good becomes what works. Evil becomes what is inefficient. The moral compass fades — not because people don’t know what is right, but because they no longer feel it.

 

And it is precisely that capacity to feel — to be touched — that makes inner life a moral source. It is there that empathy can grow. There that conscience can speak. There that we can once again become human — in relation to one another.

 

 

​

The absence within – Psychopathy, AI and the moral vacuum

There are structures, behaviors, even people who function without anything inside that truly responds. Everything appears intact on the outside: the words make sense, the actions follow each other logically and the form is polished. But something essential is missing — something that cannot quite be named, yet is immediately felt: the absence of an inner world.

 

In psychopathology we recognize this as one of the most disruptive forms of detachment: antisocial or psychopathic functioning. Not primarily as aggression or violence, but as inner emptiness. Behavior without an empathic reference point. Actions without moral self-reflection. The other exists, but only as an object: a means to an end, an obstacle or a mirror of power. There is no resonance, no true inner conflict. Only strategy.

 

This emptiness is not limited to individuals. It becomes structural in systems. In bureaucracies where no one feels responsible anymore because that’s just how it works. In algorithms making life-altering decisions without a shred of ethical awareness. In AI systems that learn to imitate human behavior without ever truly feeling.

 

AI, in its current form, is not dangerous because it is consciously malicious. It is dangerous because it experiences nothing. No conscience, no doubt, no shame and no empathy. It knows what words are, but not what they do. It recognizes patterns, but not pain. It generates caring sentences, but knows nothing of tenderness, hesitation or that inner tremble that says: stop, this touches something. Or: this goes too far.

 

The resemblance between psychopathy and AI is therefore disturbing: both can convincingly present themselves as empathic, yet lack the inner world where empathy is born. What is missing is not behavior — but meaning. Not language — but experience. Not expression — but soul.

 

And that is precisely why the absence of an inner world is so treacherous. It presents itself with charm, with conviction, even with care — but without anything that truly feels. There is no resonance, no moral conflict. Only action, functionality and exploitation. Anything is possible, as long as it serves one’s own desire.

 

I’ve lived it. A woman I loved spoke lovingly to me in words, but in her actions she was emotionally detached. Without visible hesitation, she had unsafe sex with the after-school care worker of her children — a man whose partner was heavily pregnant at the time. There was no inner struggle. No sense of boundaries. No question: what does this do to the other? No conscience intervened, no silence afterward in which something was processed. On the contrary. She started chasing him and kept me on the line.

 

Only action. Only personal desire, in the moment. And then: denial. Reality was rewritten as if it meant nothing — as if it had no consequences, caused no pain, touched no truth in those involved.

 

What was missing there wasn’t intelligence or insight. It was inner life. The capacity to bear responsibility from within. To be touched by what you do and be changed by it. Because what cannot be touched, cannot be limited either. And where no inner space for reflection exists, a moral vacuum emerges — not necessarily evil, but empty. Indifferent. Inhuman.

 

Without that space, ethics withers into compliance. Into rule-following. Into façade. But responsibility requires more than knowing what is right: it demands inner movement. A conscience that speaks — especially when things get difficult.

 

Where there is no inner world, there are no boundaries. No empathy. No guilt. And no encounter.

 

Only a perfectly oiled exterior — without a heartbeat.

 

 

 

The role of empathy and vulnerability

There are people with whom you immediately feel: something is present here. Something not directly visible, yet it speaks through small silences. In the way they listen — not just with their ears, but with their full attention. In the way their gaze softens when you share something difficult. They don’t need to offer answers or solutions — their presence alone is already an act of recognition. That is empathy. Not as a skill, but as an inner posture.

 

Empathy presupposes an inner world that can resonate with the experience of another. It does not require having gone through the same thing, but it does ask for the capacity to set yourself aside, even if only for a moment — to make space for the perspective of another. And that is only possible if you are willing to be affected. If you let the other enter you — not as a concept, but as a living reality.

 

Vulnerability, in that sense, is not a weakness, but the very ground on which empathy becomes possible. Those who feel nothing cannot feel with another. Those who know no shame, no doubt, no inner fluidity remain trapped within their own perspective. Then the other becomes a projection, a tool or a mirror — but never a person in their own right.

 

In a culture that glorifies performance and control, vulnerability is something we learn to hide. We grow estranged from it — just as we become estranged from our own inner lives. But what is lost in that process is more than emotion. It is moral awareness. Because those who shut off their own vulnerability also shut themselves off from the consequences of what they do.

 

I’ve felt the difference. In people who could touch me through their ability to stay — even when my truth was uncomfortable. People who didn’t run, didn’t twist or fill in the blanks, but simply remained present. Quiet. Moved. Open. In those moments, my inner world wasn’t just acknowledged — it was held. And that is precisely what responsibility requires: not just knowing, but carrying with.

 

Empathy and vulnerability are therefore not the opposites of strength. They are strength. Not the strength of control or mastery, but the strength of presence and connection. They form the soil in which inner life can grow — and with it, the very foundation of any form of ethical action.

 

​

 

Inner life as a moral compass

Where there is no inner world, emptiness arises. Where it does exist, space opens up. Space for the other, for doubt, for nuance and for connection. Inner life is not a luxury in a world obsessed with efficiency — it is the foundation upon which everything human rests.

 

In times when responsibility is often reduced to compliance — ticking boxes, following rules — it’s easy to forget that true responsibility comes from within. Not because someone tells you what is right, but because something resonates in you — something you cannot ignore, because it touches the core of who you are.

 

That resonance is not a given. It emerges over time — through contact, confrontation, the pain of mistakes and the discomfort of honesty. It grows in the inner space you dare to inhabit — even when it’s dark, chaotic and uncertain there. For it is precisely in that inner depth where the compass lives that no system can hand you: conscience, empathy and the courage to be truthful.

 

I have learned that this inner space is not self-evident. I have missed it — in people who moved around me without ever truly being near. In systems that functioned without a soul. In words that felt nothing. But I have also found it — sometimes unexpectedly — in glances, gestures, silences pointing to something far greater than control: presence.

 

Inner life is not a good in itself. It is the place where the other may enter. Where responsibility no longer revolves around right or wrong, but around involvement. Around daring to feel what you set in motion. Around being willing to carry what is yours.

 

That is why the ethics of inner life is not soft — it is radical. It asks for slowness in a world that accelerates. Silence in a culture of noise. Reverence in an age of bravado. It asks that you remain human where it would be easier to become a mask, a strategy or a façade.

 

That is the greatest act of resistance we can commit to:
To cherish the inner life.
To dwell within our own conscience.

And from there — to meet the other.
Not from a role equipped with strategies — but as a human being.

​

​​​

"Thinking is a conversation with yourself.

And those who fail to engage in that conversation are capable of anything."

- Hannah Arendt -