The stuttering. The falling. The Lost.
They move slowly, hesitant.
You can tell them apart by paying close attention to their eyes. The Lost hold a permanent look of searching. Wide eyed, craving something to focus on.
They cannot, however, focus.
They may linger for a moment on a pretty face or an interesting thought but they will not hold your gaze.
They cannot hold your gaze.
They drift through life. Waiting for a…something.
How are they supposed to know what? They’re lost.
A helping hand perhaps. Or a word of affection. Someone to drag them out of the whirlwind.
Maybe. Maybe not.
Lost is not nice to be. But at least lost is not left.
The Left are empty. You won’t have seen The Left – hopefully.
If you had, it would be the eyes that gave them away. Clouded over with despair.
They are found in desolate, broken places. Slumped in corners of barren wastelands.
If you were to wipe away the mist from their eyes, you would be able to see years of mounting regrets, abandonment or trauma.
This trauma did not hurt them, but haunt them.
Stripping away the half-hearted attempts of defences and stealing any whispers of self-worth.
The people who did this to them, swept out as soon as they swept in.
Hence they became The Left.
At least the Lost are lost together. A wave of unease and emptiness.
The Left are not so fortunate.
They have fallen through lost.
All that remains of them, is just, left.