It is easy enough to forget how alone you are, if you really want to.
Loneliness is a strange state; it depends almost entirely on your perception of a given situation. The paradoxical nature of such a quality allows one to be perfectly alone without feeling lonely. Or, inversely, in a crowded market feeling dreadfully alone.
It starts out as little more than a shadow, casting itself over whoever approaches. Before long it settles down, like the evening, growing ever darker. It slides along the streets, depositing more and more shadows that grow and fill the pockets of the night. Grievous, quick to bring sorrow. Not complete without misery. Don't fool yourself; it will wait for you tomorrow.
I have my routines. I go to the market, have my tea, sit in the sun and smoke my pipe. I do not have anyone to share breakfast with, but that is okay. To carry on as if normal is normal. That is, of course, what it means to be normal. I have not a step out of place, nor a meal missed, nor an appointment un-kept.
But I guess that I was lonely.
That is why I stopped when I passed your bedroom door. It was the best guestroom in Bag End, right next to my room, but after that spring day I will always remember it as yours. I did not think that I would cry for you like this again. I am caught by the plainness and simplicity of the memory. It would otherwise be innocuous, but now it feels different. Visceral. I can still hear your deep timbre, humming in the bedroom next to mine. I walk passed that room every day, but that shadow of loneliness was waiting for me. Quiet and insidious it slipped into my conscious and knocked me on my back.
I try to recover every memory I have of you. I wish I had paid closer attention. I did not know that those would be the last moments we had together. Your voice is on a never ending loop in my head. Don't let me forget that sound. The sound of your voice as you hummed in the room next to mine. The sound of your voice when you spoke to me with respect. With love. The sound of your voice being happy. I wish I could hear you happy.
And I wish that blasted room did not remind me of you! It is the pillar of regret that keeps the pain of memory alive. It is the shelter that preserves things as they were and never again will be. It is a chasm of darkness that reminds me you are gone. It is the well of loneliness.
I wish I could feel your hand on my face and tell you I love you. I love you. I wish I could hold you in my arms. I love you. I wish I could kiss you slow and sweetly. I love you. I wish I had done all of these things before it was too late. I loved you.
I loved you, Thorin Oakenshield, and I daresay I still do. I am old now and you are dead. Without you here all of my days have been misspent. The nights are made for quiet pining; I know you will not meet me by the fire. The days stretch endless when you are not here. But it was long ago I was resigned to a life without you. And while I can ignore much of my isolation, I will never forget that each day I draw from the well of loneliness.