Aleksandr V. Gevorkyan

As they spoke of their exodus from their native lands, they politely and reservedly smiled while others looked away trying to not show any tears… ‘emotions can’t help here, only hurt your health’ – a friend whispers over a text message. Then it becomes obvious: they spoke calmly to save the energy for a forceful, eloquent, and loud demand for justice from a big stage later in the day. No, those were not just empty proclamations. Like a resilient grapevine, each word sprouted from the preceding pushing the argument to grow in its full bloom.
But… will anyone listen, though? Hardly. Will anyone hear? Unlikely. The words fall on dusted path of the millennia old untended indigenous vines. Devastation to the land is not visible across the ridges, just the hearts’ bleeding… Resurrection has been attempted before…in so many now abandoned places that one wonders of what help is reminiscing or imagining that, which is not?
The darkness outside, as you leave the flashy airport, is still the same. It has not changed in ten years, nor twenty years, less so in thirty. It’s the darkness of the “cold and dark” or what for a Western mind the London of Dickens and the Paris of Hugo might have been on a sad foggy night… The car jerks forward then to the right, then quickly to the left, accelerating right about the final right turn crossing a massive bridge of grey history of stones, immersing in the bright orange lights.
We are in the city center again… what remains outside of it is now in a tight embrace of a mountainous night. Meantime, the little center is bustling with music, lights, cheerful noise, the ten-thousand-steps tourists wishing to “live here forever” minutes before their flight, in the shadow of birthday fireworks in the distance. The following day, some late party-goers bus up to the only two ancient sights they know, running over on the way far more significant medieval fortresses and pre-historic sites…or rather the dirt that remains of those.
The sun sets quickly in the mountains. It is something to remember before venturing into a foggy mountainous forest. Anyone brave enough to attempt an ascent must be prepared to cross through at least three weather changes. There is no stability here; not in the mountains, not in the woods, nor in the street movement, nor in life. And yet, it is incredible to see how little changes year after year.
Food is wonderful, though sometimes overpriced, with fruit tasting as they were first made and everyone still sincerely smiles. Truly so. Perhaps turbulence is the new stability, so one must adapt and move on. A kid in an interview says, the purpose of living is to live… go figure, perhaps it also matters “how to live”.

Honor is a big deal in the mountains. The view from there, even when covered in snow thick fog, is absolutely incredible. The eagles piercing the sky as they appear and then disappear into the fog are the only moving creatures as people stand, as if dug into the earth, mesmerized with the view. The people are dug into the ground, unwilling to move and leave behind the meaning of them. Still, as villages empty out, small towns are also on the move. All roads then inevitably lead to the small center, where there is a case for oligopoly studies in the local coffee shop market.
Then there are too many subtle, unspoken, standards in terms of norms of behavior and expectations, in a place where everyone is a unicorn. The paradox of living is that life goes on despite running out of physical space as long as the tarmac is operational. It all settles in eventually.
As the street water fountain’s water pierces one’s mind it becomes clear: let’s hope nothing else happens and live with all that there is. The sense of resignation and lack of individual agency is that stifling air, not the summer heat. It is the pressure of hope that maybe now, all is fine. After all, look at all the construction and richer people buying up stuff.
The unicorns crawl out into the night clubs and wine bars later in the evening. Now is the time to live for few hours in a sense of accomplishment in the big global high-tech world while pushing away the thought of relatives in a mountainous village biding their time with occasional electricity, maybe running hot water, and at the sight of aiming cannons up the hills that they once scaled just for fun. Nah, social inequality has rarely bothered a “self-made” high-roller.

It is incredible how much human talent, and not just crosses, can be squeezed out of a pure rock. Those mountains, deceptive they are, seem to be embedded in the conscience of each and everyone who has at least once tried their water. But the pattern in the conscience is not the same. Many slip off, while others stubbornly keep climbing up despite the cannons or lack of sun.
These mountains stand immovable to snow or rain or fire, as if they are waiting for something or someone… ah, it is just a romantic illusion… celebrating unicorns over lemonades is more meaningful it seems… at least there is a digital record that goes into history.
Indeed, the purpose of living is to live… but it also probably matters how.