He shuts his eyes, and for a minute, there is an eerie silence.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he can 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 strain grow in his broad neck and back.
This trail has been walked by many and only returned on by few.
He attempts to breathe deep, only to be choked by the feeling 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 rocks and sand underneath his feet.
There's a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, forecasting what is to come.
The warmth of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his competitor.
There he stands, that looming figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body shimmering with hard steel. Piercing eyes as sharpened as the weapon he holds. A body intended for one thing - Elimination. His loud roar echoes across and out of the arena.
As the quiet 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 stomach sinks...but for a second. He kneels down, grabs a chunk of the dust beneath him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sift 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 scars on his body rouse memories of inaccuracy, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the opponent across from him, it comes over him. A sweeping 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 be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open swiftly. He's been dreaming again. He takes a deep breath, slides his hands over the beautiful old wood and grips the sides of the speakers podium.
He's 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 grandest arena. Much of the time, that looming opponent across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the actual act, but fear to really accomplish something that you truly have been thinking about doing. It truly sounds bizarre at first, however it happens. It is 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 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 those that look on a critique that very same man for the things he does. Always recall that. Honestly, do not be fearful of falling in the dust. Our scars define our wonderful journey, and make it just that much more special.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he can 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 strain grow in his broad neck and back.
This trail has been walked by many and only returned on by few.
He attempts to breathe deep, only to be choked by the feeling 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 rocks and sand underneath his feet.
There's a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, forecasting what is to come.
The warmth of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his competitor.
There he stands, that looming figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body shimmering with hard steel. Piercing eyes as sharpened as the weapon he holds. A body intended for one thing - Elimination. His loud roar echoes across and out of the arena.
As the quiet 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 stomach sinks...but for a second. He kneels down, grabs a chunk of the dust beneath him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sift 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 scars on his body rouse memories of inaccuracy, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the opponent across from him, it comes over him. A sweeping 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 be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open swiftly. He's been dreaming again. He takes a deep breath, slides his hands over the beautiful old wood and grips the sides of the speakers podium.
He's 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 grandest arena. Much of the time, that looming opponent across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the actual act, but fear to really accomplish something that you truly have been thinking about doing. It truly sounds bizarre at first, however it happens. It is 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 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 those that look on a critique that very same man for the things he does. Always recall that. Honestly, do not be fearful of falling in the dust. Our scars define our wonderful journey, 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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