The loneliest one is not the one who knows he is alone in the world. To know one is alone is actually the beginning of emancipation, and has little in common with the dread hopelessness of being truly alone. Awareness of loneliness has the power to make one at home in the earth, to integrate his soul with all transient reality and humbly accept his existence in the hope of a resurrection.
The loneliest one is the one blissfully unaware of his self-created hero project, who earns his imaginary heroism with every victory against being alone. He is trained in all the social games and psychological tricks needed for social survival. He is crowned with every successful preoccupation which removes him far from wrestling with the reality of his being.
He has no idea he is lonely, does it not follow that he is not lonely? Must not one at least feel the sting of loneliness to be lonely? But his whole life is a sting. He is a dysphoric hero having all the proof of a life well lived, a string of victories, yet mysteriously lacking any of the peace he expected. His mind requires activity, like a ruthless slave owner who will not let his captive sleep. Stillness is no lover, but a torturer. He has never made peace with himself and his true estate. He would have conquered loneliness had he but been able to endure his own self for ten quiet minutes alone (Pascal). Instead he chose a phantom communion with his many worldly, material chimeras. He has not even himself for company. He is the loneliest one.