He shuts his eyes, and for a minute, there is deep silence.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he can feel the ground shaking.
The walls are dripping and there is a soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he walks to the the crowded arena, he can feel the stress grow in his broad shoulders.
This journey has been journeyed by many and only returned on by few.
He attempts to breathe deep, only to be gripped by the nervousness 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 underneath his feet.
There's a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, anticipating what's to come.
The warmth of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his competitor.
There he stands, that giant figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body glistening with scratched up steel. Piercing eyes as sharp as the blade he holds. A body meant for one thing - Annihilation. His loud roar echoes across the arena.
As the nervous crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with expectation. The noble men look on with curiosity in the safeness of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the unavoidable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his gut sinks...but only for a second. He kneels down, grabs a chunk of the mud underneath him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sieve through his fingers. He runs his hand softly along the sharp blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The thick scars on his body evoke memories of error, 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 squeezes the handle and let's out a cry that will always be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open quickly. He's been dreaming again. He takes a deep breath, slides his hands over the dark old wood and grips the sides of the lectern.
He is 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. Most of the time, that approaching figure across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the actual act, but fear to really attain something that you truly have been thinking about doing. It truly sounds unusual at first, but it happens. It is absolutely what keeps us from being great. That small fear of really 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 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 recall that. Honestly, do not be afraid of falling in the dust. Our scars outline our journey, and make it just that much more unique.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he can feel the ground shaking.
The walls are dripping and there is a soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he walks to the the crowded arena, he can feel the stress grow in his broad shoulders.
This journey has been journeyed by many and only returned on by few.
He attempts to breathe deep, only to be gripped by the nervousness 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 underneath his feet.
There's a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, anticipating what's to come.
The warmth of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his competitor.
There he stands, that giant figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body glistening with scratched up steel. Piercing eyes as sharp as the blade he holds. A body meant for one thing - Annihilation. His loud roar echoes across the arena.
As the nervous crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with expectation. The noble men look on with curiosity in the safeness of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the unavoidable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his gut sinks...but only for a second. He kneels down, grabs a chunk of the mud underneath him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sieve through his fingers. He runs his hand softly along the sharp blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The thick scars on his body evoke memories of error, 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 squeezes the handle and let's out a cry that will always be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open quickly. He's been dreaming again. He takes a deep breath, slides his hands over the dark old wood and grips the sides of the lectern.
He is 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. Most of the time, that approaching figure across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the actual act, but fear to really attain something that you truly have been thinking about doing. It truly sounds unusual at first, but it happens. It is absolutely what keeps us from being great. That small fear of really 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 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 recall that. Honestly, do not be afraid of falling in the dust. Our scars outline our journey, 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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