After experiencing depression and grief, the mind and emotions, once having learned that one can tread that path, will tend to return to that state. It's as if the specter of lived traumas and the neural pathways leading there could always haunt again.

I fear the specter of the weeping Medusa, blind and immersed in eternal introspection, consumed by her grief. The monster that was supposed to be mighty, beautiful, and laughing, as Hélène Cixous wrote about her – that's who I would always like to be. However, my Medusa, or rather her shadow, barely a phantom, is devoid of her powers, blind – not turning to stone, crying – not laughing, subdued and dissolving, as if she wanted to disappear completely. Though so ephemeral, she stubbornly threatens a return of the sadness I never want to feel again. But such sadness is not forgotten; it's always there, ready to haunt again.