Ella Frances Sanders



Back to the unreliable people.

They can’t help it, and you don’t see it coming.

No wonder some humans decide to be islands; it makes for a far more regular heartbeat. But their pulse isn’t painful or exciting to hear, and surrounding yourself with miles of water is safer but ultimately they’re living less.

Caring about people is hard. When you pour yourself into these lives there can often be cracks; holes in the person where your emotions are leaking out, unnoticed and wasted. But it’s nearly always worth it, so we carry on pouring and leaking and getting tangled up in lives that we’d rather not remember.

Letting humans matter to you so much that just glancing over at their changing faces hurts your stomach—it has to be a conscious effort.

Care too much. Overcare. I’m growing my heart like a plant in a pot on the windowsill. It’s planted in people and it grows stronger because of that (although sometimes my heart really does object quite loudly to being planted in people and feels trapped, even buried, beyond any kind of explanation).

Care because it’s good for you, and because if you don’t nurture things and people and places, you’re not going to be growing too well yourself. Sure, you might look alright on the outside, but indifference isn’t the same thing as strategic-removal-from-emotional-situations and at some point down the line, you’ll realise that your heart was capable of caring for so much more. Care because most things don’t last for very long, definitely not forever, and you need to devote yourself hopelessly to them while they’re still around.

Humans are strange beyond all measure, and I couldn’t care more.

WritingElla Frances Sanders