He closes 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's a soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he climbs up to the the crowded arena, he can feel the tension grow in his broad back and neck.
This path has been traveled by many and only returned on by few.
He attempts to breathe deep, only to be gripped by the sensation looming in his abdomen.
He walks out into the blinding white 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 small beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, expecting what's about 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 shimmering with hard steel. Piercing eyes as pointed as the blade he holds. A body created for one thing - Annihilation. His loud roar echoes across the arena.
As the quiet crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with anticipation. The noble men look on with curiosity in the safeness of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the inescapable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his gut sinks...but just 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 softly along the pointed blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The thick scars on his body rouse memories of gaffe, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the figure 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 seizes 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 paused and takes a concentrated breath, slides his hands over the beautiful 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 fierce opponent across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the explicit act, but fear to truly attain something that you have been thinking about doing. It really sounds strange initially, but it occurs. It is what keeps us from being great. That little fear of actually being a light out in the world for many to see and for many to judge cannot ever be put out. We must not play small. The credit goes to the person who is trying and failing. It is not paid to people who look on a criticise that very same man for the things he does. Always remember that. Do not be terrified of falling in the dust. Our scars outline our wonderful journey, and make it just that much more fun.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he can feel the ground shaking.
The walls are dripping and there's a soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he climbs up to the the crowded arena, he can feel the tension grow in his broad back and neck.
This path has been traveled by many and only returned on by few.
He attempts to breathe deep, only to be gripped by the sensation looming in his abdomen.
He walks out into the blinding white 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 small beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, expecting what's about 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 shimmering with hard steel. Piercing eyes as pointed as the blade he holds. A body created for one thing - Annihilation. His loud roar echoes across the arena.
As the quiet crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with anticipation. The noble men look on with curiosity in the safeness of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the inescapable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his gut sinks...but just 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 softly along the pointed blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The thick scars on his body rouse memories of gaffe, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the figure 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 seizes 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 paused and takes a concentrated breath, slides his hands over the beautiful 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 fierce opponent across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the explicit act, but fear to truly attain something that you have been thinking about doing. It really sounds strange initially, but it occurs. It is what keeps us from being great. That little fear of actually being a light out in the world for many to see and for many to judge cannot ever be put out. We must not play small. The credit goes to the person who is trying and failing. It is not paid to people who look on a criticise that very same man for the things he does. Always remember that. Do not be terrified of falling in the dust. Our scars outline our wonderful journey, and make it just that much more fun.
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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