The Quest for Peace
Impulse. It hits me like a spark, something sharp and electric, a fleeting moment that pulls me into the present. It’s easy to be consumed by it, to chase after it, to try and hold on to that spark. But then, I stop. I ask myself, is it enough to just be? To let go of the chase, the pursuit of something always just out of reach? To free myself from the weight of the world’s expectations? Is that freedom? Or is it weakness?
I look out from the tower, a vast view laid before me. I can see everything—the city, the pillars, the people. They move, they fight, they live as if each day is an endless battle to be won. The king is dead, yes. They mourn, they move on, they forget. It’s a cycle, a constant loop of loss and renewal, each life a fleeting moment in the grand story of time.
But what am I searching for? Power? Glory? A name etched into history? Do I need it? Does any of it matter?
It feels as though I’m always reaching for something, stretching my hands toward an ideal, toward some version of myself that I think I should be. A version that’s strong, that’s admired, that’s worthy of attention. But when does it stop? When do I stop?
What if I let go? What if I stop grasping at that thing just beyond my reach? What if I allowed myself to simply be—not for the title, not for the legend, but for the experience itself? For the moment?
I ask myself—is that enough?
In that stillness, I feel it. The world slows down. For once, I’m not fighting against it. I’m not trying to control it. I’m not reaching. I’m just here. Now. Is this peace?
It’s strange, yes. The idea of just existing—without striving, without the endless chasing of something. The notion that peace isn’t in the goal, but in the pause—the space between breaths. Can I afford it?
Is this the true answer? To step outside of the fight, the pursuit, the need to be more than what I am? To just let go?
I think about all the stories I’ve heard—the ones of kings, of conquerors, of legends. They fought, they bled, they rose, they fell. And in the end, they were often forgotten. Their names, their stories, swallowed up by time. All that remains is the moment—the tiny, fleeting slice of life that can never be repeated.
I think of Fullmetal Alchemist, where the Elric brothers sought the Philosopher’s Stone, believing that if they could just have that one thing, they would fix all that had gone wrong. They would bring back what was lost, and perhaps find peace in that. But they discovered that peace wasn’t in fixing the past—it wasn’t in regaining what was lost. It was in the acceptance of what is, in the realization that we cannot control everything, that we must sometimes let go of what we cannot change.
Is that true for me too? Is it true for all of us? That peace comes, not from having everything, but from the ability to release everything?
I think about Vagabond, and how Musashi, in his search for meaning, kept battling—fighting for something he could never quite name, something always just out of reach. But in the end, his search wasn’t about victory. It was about understanding. It was about accepting that the fight itself was never the answer. The peace was in the release, in detachment from the constant struggle.
It’s not that the struggle isn’t real. It’s not that the pain isn’t there. It is. We fight. We strive. We hurt. But what if that pain, that struggle, doesn’t define us? What if, in the midst of all this, we could still find peace—not through victory, but through surrender? Through the realization that we don’t need to own every moment, don’t need to control every outcome. That it’s enough to simply exist, to simply be alive.
I think about love, and how love often feels like another thing we must fight for, something we must prove we’re worthy of. But love is not a battle to be won. It’s a state of being. A presence. It exists in the stillness, in the quiet moments when we let go of the need to possess or control it. Love is in the space where we release our fears and simply are.
And maybe that’s what I’ve been looking for all along—not power, not glory, but the ability to let go, to stop striving, to simply be part of the world without needing to change it, without needing to be anyone else but who I am.
But what if I stopped? What if, instead of pushing, instead of climbing toward something, I just let go of the climb?
Is it possible to simply be?
If I let go of the need for power—if I stop trying to grasp at something that’s always just out of reach—could I find peace? Can I find peace without becoming someone else’s hero, without living to see my name in lights? Is that freedom?
It’s strange, but it feels right. What if I could just live? Not for the title, not for the legend, not for the next battle or the next conquest—but for the experience itself? The simple act of being, of moving through the world without the weight of expectation. Maybe that’s where I’ll find something that feels like peace. But can I afford it?
Maybe it’s not about the chase anymore. Maybe the goal is the pause. The space between breaths.
Is that enough?
Maybe the answer is as simple as yes. Maybe peace isn’t something we find. Maybe it’s something we create—in the space between breaths, in the acceptance of all that we are, in letting go of the need to chase after what is always just beyond our reach.
And so I ask myself again, as I stand here, looking out at the world: Is that enough?
For the first time, I think I understand the answer. Yes.
It’s enough.
