He gently closes his eyes, and for a minute, there is deep silence.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he will be able to 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 starts to feel the stress grow in his upper neck and back.
This trail has been journeyed by many and only returned on by few.
He attempts to breathe deep, only to be choked out by the sensation approaching in his abdomen.
He walks out into the blinding 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 below his feet.
There's a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, expecting what's about to come.
The 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 shimmering with decorated steel. Piercing eyes as pointed as the harsh blade he holds. A body intended for one thing - Elimination. His bellowing roar echoes across the arena.
As the nervous crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with anticipation. 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 just for a second. He kneels down, grabs a chunk of the dust beneath him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sieve 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 scarring on his body bring back memories of error, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the figure 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 seizes the handle and let's out a cry that'll be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open swiftly. He's been dreaming again. He paused and takes a big breath, slides his hands over the beautiful 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 arena. Much of the time, that fierce opponent across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the actual act, but fear to truly accomplish something that you truly have been considering doing. It actually sounds bizarre at first, however it occurs. It is absolutely what keeps us from being great. That small fear of actually 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 little. The credit is paid to the individual 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. Honestly, do not be afraid of falling in the dust. Our scars define our wonderful 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's a soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he climbs up to the the crowded arena, he starts to feel the stress grow in his upper neck and back.
This trail has been journeyed by many and only returned on by few.
He attempts to breathe deep, only to be choked out by the sensation approaching in his abdomen.
He walks out into the blinding 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 below his feet.
There's a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, expecting what's about to come.
The 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 shimmering with decorated steel. Piercing eyes as pointed as the harsh blade he holds. A body intended for one thing - Elimination. His bellowing roar echoes across the arena.
As the nervous crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with anticipation. 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 just for a second. He kneels down, grabs a chunk of the dust beneath him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sieve 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 scarring on his body bring back memories of error, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the figure 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 seizes the handle and let's out a cry that'll be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open swiftly. He's been dreaming again. He paused and takes a big breath, slides his hands over the beautiful 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 arena. Much of the time, that fierce opponent across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the actual act, but fear to truly accomplish something that you truly have been considering doing. It actually sounds bizarre at first, however it occurs. It is absolutely what keeps us from being great. That small fear of actually 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 little. The credit is paid to the individual 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. Honestly, do not be afraid of falling in the dust. Our scars define 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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