Living in a world of malice can be kinda fucked. As I sit in the train after a long nap, echoing my thoughts as the fingers move to transmit without conscious thinking, life is absurd.

And so it was another Malicious that has left my life. Duress makes one see the ugliest facets of another. One's true colors. Of betraying another for one's own gains. When hilariously, the backstabber was the one who should be complained about for undercontributing.

B and I were talking about malicious individuals. It frustrates us so badly, to see run and into such human beings. In Chinese culture, we call them two-headed snakes. Slimy creatures that slither and seek to constrict one. Malice is ever-present. From the backstabber to the person with ill intentions, from the workplace to the school setting to the community, there they are. Like crime, they are a sign of society's normalcy. Their presence is there regardless of epoch and space.

My conjecture and suspicions were correct. People who smile at you can be the most dishonest-- and dishonesty is something intolerable. Seeking to justify, withhold information, tell lies, and then sneak around the back alley and exaggerate stories don't cut it with me. And people who blame everybody else, without stopping to consider that they themselves bear some brunt of the fault leave me dripping with contempt. Hypocrisy is inexcusable.

Standing by the café watching people go by, as eyes meet and some watch each other, I look at those passing me by in their groups and cliques.

How do they feel? Are they really putting up a front or are they genuine? Do they wonder, amidst their smiles and laughter, whether the other party really understands what they are saying. Or do they take everything for granted. Do they appreciate that face in front of them, or are these faces just passing figures and masks of convenience? Do they, in their hearts of hearts, wonder how long the relationship or the friendship can last. Do they respect each other or are they just patronizing.

The deal with people coming together can be reduced pretty unromantically. To factors like propinquity, social consensus, the need to affiliate, the need to gain from someone, etc etc. Sometimes, something good and genuine arises. At others, are there simply unstable tumultuous sentiments lurking beneath?

Do people take for granted that something is gonna last forever? Or is simply a show entitled Superficiality?

Mom always raises a concern that many friends point out-- what if some 'friends' have been jealous of me all this while, seeking to hurt and undermine me, or are growing jealous. Because she has had her fair share of such crap.

I can have a high tolerance with friends. I try to look from different perspectives. It becomes fucked if they play me out due to such resentment.

But once they do, they are out of the door. It makes you question how strong a foundation was in the first place. Because I'd rather know and clear stock than accumulate trash.

I am loyal to my friends and give them huge leeway. Especially the ones with sad sob stories-- that is my soft spot and my Achilles' heel. Those very same sad people people turn out to be the most screwed up because all they are concerned about is themselves.

Because I do not have a major problem handling people. I have amicable relations with those in my circle, and strong bonds. We have different opinions that makes for diversity, but disagreements do not sour anything. We are not clones of one another. The difference between this group and those who play the Sad Person card is the respect and the ability to be upfront.

And maybe I'm jaded with life, like Joshito thinks. Back in the day I was a different girl. I've retained some of who I used to be, perhaps my appearance belies it all. Back in the day, I had less cares. I had more fears.

Back in the day, ignorance was bliss. Back in the day, I wouldn't have known I'd turn out to be this. I miss all my romanticized views of life-- of a higher being, of justice, of love, of people. My beliefs have changed, as I get exposed to increasing doses of the ugliness of human nature with time.

When the lines between friendship and work get blurred, in an antagonistic manner; and with one turning around maliciously in order to evoke pity and put me in a precariously shaky spot, victimizing me, the finish line has been drawn. I don't wish to listen to any more excuses that it is everybody else's fault, or listen to any pleas for righting it. Are you even serious about it or are you just talking. Or have you just realized the gravity behind it.

There are many things I can forgive a friend for, but when push comes to shove and I discover you've been trying to shove me off behind my back, still with an intense masquerade of pretense; and with utmost irresponsibility about what is supposed to be done, you'll realize I'm the one still standing on the cliff.

There is a limit. You do not hope to rectify something you've ruined singlehandedly, because it is over.

I grew up tough. On the cane, the rottan, the feather duster and the belt. I was beaten up and punished whenever I deserved it. I fought back from death as an infant. I spent seven months in the back alleys of life, maneuvering the precarious, around dangerous people. Emotionally and physically, I am steeled. No one gets me down so easily. I don't believe in sayings like one has fallen down and will never get up. Those are plainly excuses.

On some weeks, I survive on 14 hours of sleep. Not daily, but the cumulative amount in seven days. I lost my grandmother two months ago, and I didn't really have time to heal given all the stuff I need to do. I still miss the woman who brought me up and taught me life's lessons in her own ways. My mother has sleep apnea and acute fibromylgia-- everyday we wake up wondering whether she'll wake up to, or if she'll be able to walk. But I don't make excuses for myself and wallow. I need to concentrate on the different aspects of my life.

I don't feel depressed and lost and stressed out. I press on, out of responsibility and love. In the midst of waking up to reality, and the jadedness, I still have love in my heart as my fuel.

Perhaps, being stabbed has led the Freudian and I to intense disappointment at someone whom we've had more than high tolerance for and approached with genuity. But these things make one stronger. Two years ago, I would have done alot of cruel things you wouldn't want to know to get back at you. Two years later, I've mellowed. The wisening up as life proceeds does not make me bulliable. It puts me into place and helps me learn, because that which does not kill me makes me stronger.

But life is absurd. Everyday we go about engaging in routine. We complain about it, but we are scared of change. The seconds tick by, as the pages of the calendar get torn away. We sleep thinking we'll awake-- what if we don't? We work to feed ourselves and others, and our desires. Sometimes all we do is follow the crowd-- we engage in things without knowing why. Even as exciting events occur, they still pass us by. Memories fade, some events are not encoded or relegated to the unconscious. We think there is a God-- what if the Theists were wrong and lived their life worshipping something that is non-existent; or if the Atheists died only to realize there is an Afterlife. We live, and then we die. Sometimes, we merely exist passively as we struggle with life in our own ways and our stories. But at the end of the day, for what do we do those for. Do we examine these? Do we really think we are that great? The greatest conquerors like Alexander The Great, Napoleon Bonaparte and Genghis Khan may have written history and caused massive bloodied destruction. Yet, the coalescence of the entire amount of blood shed, and the lives lost, are but a speck of a speck of a speck in the entire universe.

We suffer or we enjoy-- like trains we pass each other by. In illness or health, in emaciated frames or obese ones, in idleness or in diligence, the day passes by.

We live, and then we die.

Sometimes we live with greater awareness, and then we realize how absurd this thing called life is. This thing called daily living.

Does the Suicide become a coward for taking away his own life? What is this thing called life really? A creation by intelligent design of a divine hand, or a product of the accumulation of chance. Why do we live life in a certain way. Why do we place so many negative sentiments on death-- merely because it is the unknowable, we start to over-value life in the strangest ways. Of existing superficially in sync with what the culture purports, competing for the biggest cars and most luxurious of houses, ignoring the beggar on the street and making art of out him.

The Suicide dies and he is not the only one affected. The people in his circle of life get affected too, as the living live on. Because of this thing called the social. Whereby bonds and relations are created amongst individuals. Yet, this is absurd in its own sense-- an animal in a pack dies, but somehow the laws of nature compensate for it. Human beings are grieved by the loss-- it extends beyond the dead, adventiating to the living. When the living too, die.

What are we really living for?