He closes his eyes, and for a minute, there is an eerie silence.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he will be able 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 the crowded arena, he starts to feel the strain grow in his upper back and neck.
This journey has been traveled by many and only returned on by few.
He makes an attempt to breathe deep, only to be choked out by the nervousness looming in his belly.
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 gravel and sand below his feet.
There's a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, anticipating 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 giant figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body shimmering with scratched up steel. Piercing eyes as sharp as the weapon 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 anticipation. The supreme and noble men look on with curiosity in the safety 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 chunk of the dust below him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sieve through his fingers. He runs his hand gently 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 error, 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 will be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open fast. He's been dreaming again. He takes a big breath, slides his hands over the dark old wood and grips the sides of the speakers podium.
He's 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 approaching figure across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the explicit act, but fear to literally accomplish something that you truly have been considering doing. It really sounds bizarre at first, but it happens to many. It's what keeps us from being great. That tiny 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 small. The credit goes to the man who is trying and failing. It is not paid to those who look on a criticize that honest man for the things he attempting. Always remember that. Don't be terrified of falling in the dust. Our scars outline our journey, and make it just that much more fun.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he will be able 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 the crowded arena, he starts to feel the strain grow in his upper back and neck.
This journey has been traveled by many and only returned on by few.
He makes an attempt to breathe deep, only to be choked out by the nervousness looming in his belly.
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 gravel and sand below his feet.
There's a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, anticipating 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 giant figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body shimmering with scratched up steel. Piercing eyes as sharp as the weapon 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 anticipation. The supreme and noble men look on with curiosity in the safety 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 chunk of the dust below him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sieve through his fingers. He runs his hand gently 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 error, 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 will be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open fast. He's been dreaming again. He takes a big breath, slides his hands over the dark old wood and grips the sides of the speakers podium.
He's 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 approaching figure across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the explicit act, but fear to literally accomplish something that you truly have been considering doing. It really sounds bizarre at first, but it happens to many. It's what keeps us from being great. That tiny 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 small. The credit goes to the man who is trying and failing. It is not paid to those who look on a criticize that honest man for the things he attempting. Always remember that. Don't be terrified of falling in the dust. Our scars outline our 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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