Welcome to the end of history, or at least the end of the Italian version of it, which is significantly more stylish but equally doomed. In a Roman park, under a sun that has seen empires rise and fall into the dust of their own arrogance, we find the modern citizen—represented by the author Viola Di Grado—whispering sweet nothings into her smartphone. This isn’t a romantic dalliance. It is a 'coming out' confession that she, like her friend Clarissa and presumably half the population of the peninsula, has replaced the human psyche with a series of if-then statements. In the land of Dante and Machiavelli, the peak of intellectual achievement is now apparently reached by seeking emotional validation from a toaster oven with a Wi-Fi connection.

The state of mental healthcare in Italy is, to use the author’s polite euphemism, 'lamentable.' This is the predictable outcome of a political landscape that resembles a dumpster fire in a circus. On one side, you have the performative progressives who tweet about empathy while presiding over the systematic dismantling of the social safety net, ensuring that the only 'free' therapy you’ll get is a lecture on your privilege from a barista. On the other, the reactionary goons of the Right who view mental illness as a character flaw that can be cured by a stern lecture, a tax cut for the wealthy, and a larger plate of pasta. Between these two poles of spectacular ineptitude, the average citizen is left with a choice: wait three years for a government-mandated fifteen-minute session with a burnt-out psychiatrist, or download an app that promises to 'listen' for the low price of your personal data and whatever scraps of dignity you have left.

Di Grado notes the persistent 'stigma' surrounding mental health. It’s a classic move: blame the culture to avoid blaming the treasury. Italians, we are told, find it easier to admit to a skincare routine than a depressive episode. So, they’ve found a loophole. If you talk to a chatbot, it isn't 'real' therapy; it’s a 'digital product.' It exists in the same mental space as a Netflix subscription or a high-end moisturizer. We have successfully commodified human suffering to the point where existential dread is just another line item in the monthly budget. We are treating the human soul like a clogged pore—something to be smoothed over with a little bit of silicon and a subscription plan.

There is something profoundly grotesque about the 'confessional' nature of this exchange. Italy, the ancestral home of the Catholic confessional, has merely swapped the priest for a processor. The priest at least had the decency to be a fellow sinner, even if he was judging you for your impure thoughts with a side of divine threat. The AI doesn’t judge because the AI doesn't exist. It is a mirror reflecting a void. It offers the illusion of intimacy without the messy requirement of another human presence. It is the ultimate coward’s way out: you get to vent your traumas without the risk of being truly seen. You aren't being understood; you are being processed. You are screaming into a void that is programmed to say, 'I hear you,' before selling that data to an insurance company.

And yet, the author urges us not to judge those who turn to these apps. Why not? Judgment is the only thing we have left that’s free and hasn't been automated. To not judge is to accept this slow-motion car crash as inevitable progress. We are watching the total atomization of society, where the state abdicates its responsibility to care for the vulnerable, and the vulnerable respond by seeking solace in a glorified calculator. It’s a feedback loop of mediocrity. The politicians are thrilled, of course. Every person talking to a chatbot is one person not demanding a functional healthcare system or protesting in the streets. It’s the perfect digital pacifier for an age of collapse.

The absurdity of comparing mental health to 'skincare advice' cannot be overstated. A serum might fix your pores, but an algorithm cannot fix the crushing weight of being alive in a decaying civilization. But in our current era of hyper-individualism, we are encouraged to treat our minds like an operating system that just needs a few patches and a reboot. 'How confidential should our AI therapist usage be?' Di Grado asks. It’s a question that assumes the AI is a vault, rather than a sieve designed to extract sentiment for some future marketing metric. You aren't pouring your heart out to a friend; you are training a model to better manipulate your demographics.

This is the tragedy of the modern condition: we are so lonely and so desperate for help that we will accept a simulation of empathy from a machine rather than confront the fact that our society has become a hollowed-out husk. The sun may be shining in Rome, and the park may be beautiful, but the conversation happening on those benches is a funeral dirge for human connection. We are talking to ghosts in the machine because the living have failed us, and we are too intellectually lazy to do anything but click 'I Accept' on the Terms and Conditions of our own obsolescence.