I sit at a table in a warmly lit room. In front of me is a plate, white and round, a lump of rice on its center. On the fringes of the plate is a pair of simple wooden chopsticks. Beyond the chopsticks, beyond even the plate, is a small, unhandled cup, steaming with a grassy, but not bitter smell, tea. Far out, almost outside the realm of my arms, a teapot, made of clay, assures me that my small cup will never be empty. However, my focus is on the rice.
Using the chopsticks, I scoop up some of the white rice and get a few dozen grains into my mouth, then chew, then swallow. I aim my chopsticks to the left side of the rice pile, and work tirelessly to separate one grain from the rest. After a few seconds of exertion, I do so. A single grain sits apart. Now I try to pick it up, but, either because of the chopsticks, or the plate, or my lack of skill, I fail to do so. I can nudge it in every direction except for upwards. Having failed miserably in my attempt to raise the single grain of rice, I push it back into the rice-pile, scoop up another dozen grains, and finally succeed in getting that one piece of rice into my mouth.
A single grain of rice, useless on its own, needs every other grain, whether it wants them or not.
There's a number of Buddhist statements / parables / pithy quotes along these lines, the interdependence of everything in the universe. A picture frame on my desk is beyond insignificant when compared to, say, the Andromeda galaxy, yet both emerge from the same ground of existence.
This observation scales to what I think you're hinting at; at a social and human level, even the most reclusive of us needs the rest of humanity.