About a decade ago, my father and I wandered between the city and the steppe.
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Back then, the ground was blanketed with yellow sand, and the mountains along the path stretched in dull grayish-yellow hues.
Boredom became my strongest impression of that place.
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Perhaps it was the deep inland terrain—swelling ridges extending into scattered barren rocks—that disoriented me.
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The slowness of geological time seemed unchanged for millennia. The mountains connecting to the steppe felt frozen in time, a convergence of elements.
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Beyond those mountains lay endless grasslands, seas of withered grass that even a decade later remain unchanged.
The sense of boredom persists.
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