During my years in the high school I was strangely obsessed with everything regarding Greek mythology (as many people having anything in common with creativity or arts). Lately I found this excerpt from approximately four years ago that touched my soul in an unexpected way, even though a 17-year-old me had an overwhelming (and sometimes unnecessary) passion for dramaticism.

Sometimes wisdom does not save you from reproaching yourself. Athena learned this truth long ago, when there were no trees on Earth and no fish in the ocean. It was about that time that she, along with the other gods, bowed to Zeus as the supreme leader. Not because she was weaker than him, but only because she firmly knew her true destiny, unlike him. If her brother was a power supreme, she was a power knowing and just. There was not a single thing in the universe that remained incomprehensible to her, not a single mystery, but somehow every day her dark eyebrows frowned more and more.

She was forced to watch as the gods of Olympus violated the laws they themselves had created, plunging the human world into the abyss of disaster and misery. How many times the wise Athena tried to reason with Zeus herself, but all she got in return were condescending glances and complete indifference. It was as if she was not the one who tried to help him, to make the world a better place. As if she hadn't tried a thousand times to do the right thing.

She did all she could, but it was frustratingly insufficient to turn others to the truth. They were not interested in what was going on in the world, not interested in anything but eternal rest and amusement. It was as if only Athena saw the gray clouds that loomed menacingly over their carefree skies, saw everything they did not see.

"It is difficult to live in a world where only you need justice. But it's even harder not to turn into those you've always despised."

With horror mixed with doom, Athena watched her metamorphosis day by day. She was no longer as fervent in her judgement, and she found herself returning more and more to the thought that it was unlikely to change anything. She had ceased to be wise on the very day she had first turned a blind eye to the outrages of her brothers, her own blood. Couldn't she find a justification for that? Probably. She was just tired. Athena had become like them, but it did not make her feel any better, contrary to her desperate hope. A corrosive poison poured into her heart, making her legs weak and her blood run cold. No, it didn't make her feel any better. She was no longer her old self, having ripped out all the unnecessary feelings that weakened her, but, paradoxically, she was weakened by it herself.