There is something uniquely exhausting about the human penchant for performative endurance. Currently, a group of Buddhist monks is engaged in a 2,300-mile 'peace walk' from Texas to Washington, D.C., apparently under the impression that the American political apparatus is susceptible to the rhythmic slapping of sandals against asphalt. They have reached North Carolina, where they have expressed 'surprise' at the level of support they’ve received. One must wonder if the surprise stems from the fact that they haven’t been run off the road by a coal-rolling pickup truck or if it’s merely the shock of seeing so many people with nothing better to do on a Tuesday.

Let’s be clear: walking 2,300 miles for 'peace' is the geopolitical equivalent of trying to put out a forest fire by crying on it. It is a grueling, blister-inducing exercise in futility that accomplishes exactly nothing beyond the physical exhaustion of the participants. Yet, the monks seem emboldened by the crowds in the Tar Heel State. These crowds, composed of the terminally bored and the aggressively virtuous, have gathered to cheer on a concept—peace—that is as foreign to the American psyche as public transportation or fiscal responsibility. The Left sees this as a 'beautiful moment of mindfulness,' a chance to update their Instagram stories with a splash of saffron orange to prove they are 'centered.' Meanwhile, the Right watches from the periphery, squinting at the monks and trying to determine if 'zen' is a brand of nicotine pouch or a clandestine socialist plot to replace steak with tofu.

Starting a peace walk in Texas is a masterclass in irony. This is a state that treats the Second Amendment as a holy writ and views the concept of 'turning the other cheek' as a tactical error. To walk from Texas to D.C. is to travel from the holster of the nation to its trigger finger. It is a journey through the heart of a country that exports more high-velocity 'un-peace' than any other civilization in history. And yet, the monks plod on, fueled by the hope that their 2,300-mile treadmill of virtue will somehow resonate in the halls of Washington. It’s a touching sentiment if you’re the kind of person who believes that writing a letter to Santa will actually lower your mortgage interest rate.

The support in North Carolina is particularly telling. This is a state currently locked in the usual partisan death spiral, a place where neighborly love is often contingent on which yard sign you’ve hammered into your lawn. The fact that they have unified to cheer for monks suggests that peace, as an abstract, non-threatening concept that requires zero actual sacrifice, is the only thing left that everyone can agree on. You don't have to vote for peace. You don't have to pay taxes for peace. You just have to stand on a sidewalk and wave at a guy in a robe while you wait for your DoorDash order to arrive. It is the ultimate low-calorie activism.

And what is the destination? Washington, D.C. A city that operates on the necrotizing energy of lobbyists, career bureaucrats, and people who think 'The West Wing' was a documentary. The idea that a group of monks will arrive at the capital and influence the direction of a nation currently careening toward a cliff is laughable. The people in D.C. don't want peace; they want leverage. They want campaign contributions. They want a four-year contract with a defense contractor that ensures their retirement. A peace walk is a nuisance to the D.C. ecosystem—a traffic delay for a motorcade carrying someone who just authorized a drone strike from their iPad.

The monks’ surprise at their reception in North Carolina reveals a tragic optimism. They think the cheers are for the message. In reality, the cheers are for the spectacle. In a society starved for novelty, a parade of saffron-clad walkers is just another piece of content to be consumed and discarded. The supporters will go home, pat themselves on the back for being 'part of something,' and then immediately go back to yelling at strangers on the internet about the impending apocalypse.

Ultimately, the 2,300-mile walk is a perfect metaphor for the human condition: a lot of effort, a great deal of sweat, and a total lack of meaningful progress. The monks will reach D.C., their sandals will be worn thin, and the world will remain as violent and chaotic as it was when they left Texas. But at least the people of North Carolina got to see something colorful between commercial breaks. We are a species that would rather celebrate a long walk than do the hard work of actually changing our nature. Peace isn't found at the end of a 2,300-mile hike; it's lost in the noise of the very crowds cheering for it.