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 approaches the arena, he can feel the strain grow in his upper shoulders.
This journey has been journeyed by many and only returned on by few.
He makes an attempt to breathe deep, only to be gripped 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 dirt and sand below his feet.
There's a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, anticipating what's about to come.
The gentle warmth of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his opponent.
There he stands, that monstrous figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body glistening with scratched up steel. Piercing eyes as sharp as the weapon he holds. A body intended for one thing - Destruction. His bellowing roar echoes across the arena.
As the quiet crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with expectation. The noble men look on with curiosity in the security of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the inescapable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his stomach sinks...but for a second. He kneels down, grabs a small handful of the dust beneath him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it comb 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 inaccuracy, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the opponent across from him, it comes over him. A oceanic 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'll be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open quickly. He's been dreaming again. He takes a concentrated breath, slides his hands over the polished old wood and grips the sides of the lectern.
He is now 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 enemy 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 actually sounds bizarre at first hearing, however it occurs. It's what keeps us from being great. That tiny fear of really being a light out in the world for lots of people to see and for many to judge must not be put out. We must not play small. The credit is allocated to the person who is trying and failing. It is not paid to people who look on a criticize that same man for the things he attempting. Always remember that. Don't be afraid of falling in the dust. Our scars beautifully outline our story, and make it just that much more special.
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 approaches the arena, he can feel the strain grow in his upper shoulders.
This journey has been journeyed by many and only returned on by few.
He makes an attempt to breathe deep, only to be gripped 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 dirt and sand below his feet.
There's a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, anticipating what's about to come.
The gentle warmth of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his opponent.
There he stands, that monstrous figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body glistening with scratched up steel. Piercing eyes as sharp as the weapon he holds. A body intended for one thing - Destruction. His bellowing roar echoes across the arena.
As the quiet crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with expectation. The noble men look on with curiosity in the security of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the inescapable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his stomach sinks...but for a second. He kneels down, grabs a small handful of the dust beneath him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it comb 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 inaccuracy, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the opponent across from him, it comes over him. A oceanic 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'll be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open quickly. He's been dreaming again. He takes a concentrated breath, slides his hands over the polished old wood and grips the sides of the lectern.
He is now 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 enemy 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 actually sounds bizarre at first hearing, however it occurs. It's what keeps us from being great. That tiny fear of really being a light out in the world for lots of people to see and for many to judge must not be put out. We must not play small. The credit is allocated to the person who is trying and failing. It is not paid to people who look on a criticize that same man for the things he attempting. Always remember that. Don't be afraid of falling in the dust. Our scars beautifully outline our story, and make it just that much more special.
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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