He gently closes his eyes, and for a minute, there's silence.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he starts to feel the ground shaking.
The walls are dripping and there is a soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he climbs up to the the crowded arena, he can feel the strain grow in his upper neck and back.
This path has been walked by many and only returned on by few.
He attempts to breathe deep, only to be choked out by the sensation growing in his stomach.
He walks out into the fierce light, eyes blurred and senses dulled.
There's that deafening sound of the crowd and the pinging in his ears. He feels the crunch of the dirt and sand below his feet.
There is a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, forecasting what's to come.
The warmth of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his adversary.
There he stands, that looming figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body sparkling with scratched up steel. Piercing eyes as pointed as the harsh blade he holds. A body meant for one thing - Annihilation. His roar echoes across the arena.
As the crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with expectation. The rich men men look on with curiosity in the safety of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the inescapable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his stomach sinks...but only for a second. He kneels down, grabs a handful of the dust below him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it comb through his fingers. He runs his hand gently along the sharpened blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The scars on his body bring back memories of inaccuracy, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the enemy across from him, it comes over him. A sweeping feeling runs through his veins and into his fingertips.
He digs his feet into the ground.
He seizes the handle and let's out a cry that will be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open swiftly. He's been dreaming again. He paused and takes a concentrated breath, slides his hands over the polished old wood and grips the sides of the speakers podium.
He's finally ready.
He speaks
"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat." - Theodore Roosevelt
Our lives are the arena. Much of the time, that looming opponent across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the specific act, but fear to truly accomplish something that you truly have been considering doing. It truly sounds strange initially, however it occurs. It is what keeps us from being great. That small fear of actually being a light out in the world for people to see and for many to judge must never be put out. We must not play tiny. The credit is paid to the man who is trying and failing. It is not paid to those who look on a criticise that very same man for the things he is doing. Always remember that. Do not be fearful of falling in the dust. Our scars outline our story, and make it just that much more unique.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he starts to feel the ground shaking.
The walls are dripping and there is a soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he climbs up to the the crowded arena, he can feel the strain grow in his upper neck and back.
This path has been walked by many and only returned on by few.
He attempts to breathe deep, only to be choked out by the sensation growing in his stomach.
He walks out into the fierce light, eyes blurred and senses dulled.
There's that deafening sound of the crowd and the pinging in his ears. He feels the crunch of the dirt and sand below his feet.
There is a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, forecasting what's to come.
The warmth of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his adversary.
There he stands, that looming figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body sparkling with scratched up steel. Piercing eyes as pointed as the harsh blade he holds. A body meant for one thing - Annihilation. His roar echoes across the arena.
As the crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with expectation. The rich men men look on with curiosity in the safety of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the inescapable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his stomach sinks...but only for a second. He kneels down, grabs a handful of the dust below him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it comb through his fingers. He runs his hand gently along the sharpened blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The scars on his body bring back memories of inaccuracy, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the enemy across from him, it comes over him. A sweeping feeling runs through his veins and into his fingertips.
He digs his feet into the ground.
He seizes the handle and let's out a cry that will be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open swiftly. He's been dreaming again. He paused and takes a concentrated breath, slides his hands over the polished old wood and grips the sides of the speakers podium.
He's finally ready.
He speaks
"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat." - Theodore Roosevelt
Our lives are the arena. Much of the time, that looming opponent across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the specific act, but fear to truly accomplish something that you truly have been considering doing. It truly sounds strange initially, however it occurs. It is what keeps us from being great. That small fear of actually being a light out in the world for people to see and for many to judge must never be put out. We must not play tiny. The credit is paid to the man who is trying and failing. It is not paid to those who look on a criticise that very same man for the things he is doing. Always remember that. Do not be fearful of falling in the dust. Our scars outline our story, and make it just that much more unique.
About the Author:
Evan Sanders is the author and creator of The Words Of Encouragement a website devoted to bringing audiences encouraging blogs, life changing quotes, videos and other content to help others follow their passions and purposes. Interested in learning more about Theodore Roosevelt? Here are some amazing Theodore Roosevelt Quotes
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