The automacy evident in consumerism or the "fetishism of commodities", if you will, points to a process that cannot fulfill our deepest needs. But the fact that people pursue those ends doesn't measure how much they desire something more by itself. There are all kinds of ways to tread water in life. It is easy to judge others accordingly.
There is a passage from the Gnostic
Gospel of Phillip that speaks to this:
"A donkey turning a millstone walked a hundred miles. When it was set loose, it found itself in the same place. Some people travel long distances but get nowhere. By nightfall they have seen no cities or villages, nothing man-made or natural, no powers or angels. These miserable people have labored in vain."
Our condition, taken without reference to our struggles, leaves much unknown. And that relates to another passage from the same book:
"People who are slaves against their will can be free. People who are freed by favor of their master and then sell themselves back into slavery cannot be free again."
So that is a judgment but not one made by others. Perhaps it can be observed.
Having wandered this far into the Christian register, I might as well go a little further. The experience of darkness and isolation may not measure distance between people but seasons of one's soul. John Donne throws this sort of thing down pretty well. Since he speaks to this season in the literal sense of the word, here is:
A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day:
'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's,
Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;
The sun is spent, and now his flasks
Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;
The world's whole sap is sunk;
The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk,
Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk,
Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh,
Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph.
Study me then, you who shall lovers be
At the next world, that is, at the next spring;
For I am every dead thing,
In whom Love wrought new alchemy.
For his art did express
A quintessence even from nothingness,
From dull privations, and lean emptiness;
He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot
Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not.
All others, from all things, draw all that's good,
Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have;
I, by Love's limbec, am the grave
Of all that's nothing. Oft a flood
Have we two wept, and so
Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow
To be two chaoses, when we did show
Care to aught else; and often absences
Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses.
But I am by her death (which word wrongs her)
Of the first nothing the elixir grown;
Were I a man, that I were one
I needs must know; I should prefer,
If I were any beast,
Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest,
And love; all, all some properties invest;
If I an ordinary nothing were,
As shadow, a light and body must be here.
But I am none; nor will my sun renew.
You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun
At this time to the Goat is run
To fetch new lust, and give it you,
Enjoy your summer all;
Since she enjoys her long night's festival,
Let me prepare towards her, and let me call
This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this
Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.
- John Donne