I am sensitive to the act of traveling. Even going to empty the compost bin in the garden can turn out to be an intense experience, full of events, full of encounters.

For instance, the fact that to get there I have to step on the dry grass, feel its crunch beneath my feet, endure the wind slinging dirt onto me, the light changing with each step of my walk, the color of the wheat ears, the pit itself—to me, these are things rich in significance. The fact that as I pass by, things are, were, and are becoming, makes my heart race. I have an acute, almost perverse perception of time, so much so that things seem so profoundly changed in the span of a few moments that I feel as though I have lived for many hours, as though I have seen them grow old, or be reborn: I perceive the history in everything.

To take two steps, for me, is always equivalent to taking infinitely many, because between one step and the next lies eternity—like the tortoise that Achilles never catches: the more my attention increases, the more I catch the intermediate states of things, which are infinite.

This happens to me with almost everything.

That is why I like climbing the Cascade complex stairs in Yerevan at night, on days when the wind is strong and freezing. I approach them like a warrior, with conviction, because according to Zeno’s paradox, I know I will never reach the end. I do it partly to stay fit, partly to punish myself, partly out of ego, partly to taste the power over myself, and partly because climbing stairs, for me, is equivalent to ascending in general—inwardly too, toward the sky; going somewhere high. And climbing them mindfully gives me that extra edge, the sensation of feeling the body work... the earth rotating... its heavy breathing...

At the first step, the decision is made. The right foot has locked onto the stone (sometimes it’s the left that starts, depending on how you approach it), and now there’s no delaying. I’ve made a commitment to myself and I can’t back out anymore; I have to bring the second foot up, the one left behind. It doesn't want to move; it is my laziness's last chance. Bringing it up takes a little effort, but the right foot prevails, holds firm, convinces it, and within a few seconds manages to pull its colleague up. Both decide they can make it. In that moment, I know I will suffer a little, but it doesn't matter, because maybe I’ll suffer later, maybe, but not right now—in another moment of history. I take five... ten... twenty steps... then another ten... fifteen... twenty more. For now, the freezing wind is shielded by the surrounding structures; I don't suffer from it enough.

Normally there are people around me, but at that hour in winter, there are always very few. Yet the human element remains perceptible: I feel in good company even if there are few of us. They are all shadows; I can’t distinguish their faces, but I catch their voices. I still feel on solid earth. With those who are also climbing, we understand each other without speaking. I sense the same effort, perhaps the same intentions I have—those trivial little things of "underachievers" that dilute our lives. We all want to feel capable. To make the effort...

At roughly the 250th step—halfway there—my legs begin to burn, and it’s nice not to show it, to hide the shortness of breath (even though I handle it well and there would be nothing dramatic to display). I like showing that the stairs won't bend me. The sky grows darker and deeper as the city lights thin out. The temperature of the wind drops a little. Now it stings my face, and my throat turns into a cold cavern, because a moment ago it was warm and now I am breathing freezing air through my nose—from which, with vain frequency, I am always tempted to pluck out the hair. I realize that in this moment, that hair would help a bit. Maybe I should just trim it, but never remove it, never remove it. From within, I sweat a little; on my skin, I perceive a paper-thin layer of water. But to perceive it I really have to pay close attention, otherwise I wouldn't notice. I see it on my skin, and it bothers me a little. I don't like feeling damp on the outside. On the inside it’s fine, but not outside, because outside I can smell it... the smell of bodily moisture is not pleasant. Looking inside, no one smells sweet. A sad matter of fact.

By the 500th step, the first part is almost done. The human element has nearly disappeared. At that hour in winter, few venture up to this point because it's cold, it's late, and there appears to be no reason to be up there. The wind blows too hard; no one lingers, no one is stupid enough to do something so pointless. I begin to sense solitude; I am at its gates. If anyone passes by, they pass far too quickly, heading down, rarely continuing up. Usually hooded or bundled up so tightly as to make themselves indistinguishable. I see someone hesitate and then go down, changing path, mind, intention. Perhaps reaching that point was enough for them. Behind me, I see Yerevan, still somewhat active, luminous, distant, and the distance makes me feel beautiful, because I think of those down there who know nothing of me, and so I imagine being the ones down there who nevertheless perceive my presence up here, as if we were synchronized. I know I am here, so I can imagine those who don't know it, knowing it. I imagine being those who don't know, and myself, in the exact same moment. This leaves me feeling electrified, charges me with power. There is communion. I sense ubiquity.

Shortly after the Cascade, however, a brief stretch of road leads toward the overpass of the monument dedicated to the 50th anniversary of the October Revolution. It is a short transition. Reaching that stretch is lovely, because it is darker; there is very little light, and much of it comes from the moon or reflections from the city. The stairs are metallic; they ring underfoot, heightening the sensation of cold because metal goes hand in hand with freezing temperatures. Up there, the frost begins to be serious business... it makes itself felt. The cold reaches into my bones from space, like a messenger of solitude... of that kind of cold that makes you feel alone, yet complete. As if I were the sole consciousness in the universe. Just before the monument, there is yet another long, icy staircase, usually covered in snow—if not for the snow, it would be hard to even recognize it, it is so dark. Voices, none. Human presence, none—and if there were to be one, it would be a different kind of presence, a replica of myself.

By the 50th Anniversary Monument, there is a vast space—a balcony overlooking Yerevan. A wide area where usually, during the day, people come to kiss romantically. It seems vastness has a lot in common with love. But in winter, up there, the wind pushes hard, freezing face and hands; the bones feel it and ache. There is nothing of love there. Two lovers would end up freezing together in an eternal kiss. With my eyes, I follow the crescendo of the monument until it impales the black sky. That is a monument to history. To things that pass. In my bones, stars emerge; black holes form within the cavities. I have reached complete solitude; I look out and see cars passing like entities flowing rapidly, isolated inside their warm little nooks: they exist and do not exist at the same time. They seem like presences moving without life. The drivers can only be assumed, talking about this or that, or thinking who knows what, of other stories.

Returning to the street, my mind drifts back to the first step, down there, when I began the ascent. It feels as though a decade has passed.