He closes his eyes, and for a minute, there is deep silence.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he starts to feel the ground shaking.
The walls are dripping and there is a nasty soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he climbs up to the arena, he can begin to feel the stress grow in his upper shoulders.
This path has been walked by many and only returned on by few.
He makes an attempt to breathe deep, only to be choked out by the feeling approaching 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 rocks and sand below his feet.
There's a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, forecasting what is to come.
The heat of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his adversary.
There he stands, that monstrous figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body glistening with scratched up steel. Piercing eyes as pointed as the harsh blade he holds. A body meant for one thing - Annihilation. His roar echoes throughout the arena.
As the crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with expectation. The rich men men look on with curiosity in the safeness of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the inevitable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his hard stomach sinks...but for a second. He kneels down, grabs a handful of the dust beneath him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sift through his fingers. He runs his hand carefully along the pointed blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The scarring on his body evoke memories of gaffe, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the opponent across from him, it comes over him. A rushing feeling runs through his veins and into his fingertips.
He digs his feet into the ground.
He grips the handle and let's out a cry that will always be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open swiftly. He's been dreaming again. He takes a concentrated breath, slides his hands over the polished old wood and grips the sides of the speakers podium.
He is now 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 greatest arena. Much of the time, that looming figure across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the explicit act, but fear to truly accomplish something that you have been considering doing. It truly sounds unusual at first hearing, but it really happens to many. It's what keeps us from being great. That little fear of really being a light out in the world for people to see and for many to judge must not be put out. We must not play tiny. The credit goes to the man who is trying and failing. It is not paid to those that look on a criticise that same man for the things he does. Always remember that. Don't be fearful of falling in the dust. Our scars beautifully 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 nasty soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he climbs up to the arena, he can begin to feel the stress grow in his upper shoulders.
This path has been walked by many and only returned on by few.
He makes an attempt to breathe deep, only to be choked out by the feeling approaching 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 rocks and sand below his feet.
There's a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, forecasting what is to come.
The heat of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his adversary.
There he stands, that monstrous figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body glistening with scratched up steel. Piercing eyes as pointed as the harsh blade he holds. A body meant for one thing - Annihilation. His roar echoes throughout the arena.
As the crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with expectation. The rich men men look on with curiosity in the safeness of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the inevitable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his hard stomach sinks...but for a second. He kneels down, grabs a handful of the dust beneath him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sift through his fingers. He runs his hand carefully along the pointed blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The scarring on his body evoke memories of gaffe, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the opponent across from him, it comes over him. A rushing feeling runs through his veins and into his fingertips.
He digs his feet into the ground.
He grips the handle and let's out a cry that will always be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open swiftly. He's been dreaming again. He takes a concentrated breath, slides his hands over the polished old wood and grips the sides of the speakers podium.
He is now 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 greatest arena. Much of the time, that looming figure across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the explicit act, but fear to truly accomplish something that you have been considering doing. It truly sounds unusual at first hearing, but it really happens to many. It's what keeps us from being great. That little fear of really being a light out in the world for people to see and for many to judge must not be put out. We must not play tiny. The credit goes to the man who is trying and failing. It is not paid to those that look on a criticise that same man for the things he does. Always remember that. Don't be fearful of falling in the dust. Our scars beautifully 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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