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No one told me that peace would be a river. I imagined it as a still lake, a mirror of a cloudless sky — but true peace, the kind that survives internal storms, is a river: alive, changeable, always moving, and yet deeply serene. "River Of Peace" is not absolute silence — it is the silence that dwells within sound. It is the murmur of water over ancient stones, the whisper that precedes sleep, the breath that deepens when the world collapses. It doesn't demand that I stop feeling; it demands that I stop resisting. It doesn't ask me to extinguish the pain, but to let it flow — like leaves dancing on the surface, without sinking, without resisting, without needing explanation.



This river has no visible beginning or end. It is born from a held-back sigh, runs through scars that still hurt, empties somewhere beyond memory — and yet, it recognises me. When I sit by its edge, I don't seek answers. I seek only the presence of the water as witness. It doesn't judge my falls, it doesn't reproach my lost afternoons, it doesn't charge me for not being strong enough. It just keeps going. And in that, it teaches me to be like it: not still like a statue, but constant like a sigh. Peace, then, is not a state to be reached — it is a way of walking. It is letting time, like the current, carry me, too, inside myself. In this river, I do not lose myself. I find myself.