He shuts his eyes, and for a minute, there's 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 walks to the threshold, he can begin to feel the stress grow in his higher shoulders.
This path has been traveled by many and only returned on by few.
He tries to breathe deep, only to be choked out by the nervousness approaching 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 underneath his feet.
There's a small beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, forecasting what's 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 glistening with decorated steel. Piercing eyes as sharp as the blade he holds. A body intended for one thing - Destruction. His loud roar echoes across the arena.
As the nervous crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with lust for the coming moment. The rich men men look on with curiosity in the security of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the inescapable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his hard stomach sinks...but just for a second. He kneels down, grabs a handful of the dust beneath him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it comb through his fingers. He runs his hand carefully along the sharpened blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The scarring on his body rouse memories of gaffe, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the enemy 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 grips 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 relaxes and takes a big breath, slides his hands over the beautiful 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 grandest arena. Most of the time, that approaching enemy across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the actual act, but fear to really achieve something that you have been brooding about doing. It actually sounds strange at first hearing, but it happens to many. It is absolutely what keeps us from being great. That small fear of really 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 tiny. The credit is paid to the man who is trying and failing. It is not paid to those that look on a criticize that very same man for the things he attempting. Always recall that. Honestly, do not be terrified 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 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 walks to the threshold, he can begin to feel the stress grow in his higher shoulders.
This path has been traveled by many and only returned on by few.
He tries to breathe deep, only to be choked out by the nervousness approaching 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 underneath his feet.
There's a small beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, forecasting what's 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 glistening with decorated steel. Piercing eyes as sharp as the blade he holds. A body intended for one thing - Destruction. His loud roar echoes across the arena.
As the nervous crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with lust for the coming moment. The rich men men look on with curiosity in the security of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the inescapable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his hard stomach sinks...but just for a second. He kneels down, grabs a handful of the dust beneath him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it comb through his fingers. He runs his hand carefully along the sharpened blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The scarring on his body rouse memories of gaffe, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the enemy 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 grips 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 relaxes and takes a big breath, slides his hands over the beautiful 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 grandest arena. Most of the time, that approaching enemy across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the actual act, but fear to really achieve something that you have been brooding about doing. It actually sounds strange at first hearing, but it happens to many. It is absolutely what keeps us from being great. That small fear of really 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 tiny. The credit is paid to the man who is trying and failing. It is not paid to those that look on a criticize that very same man for the things he attempting. Always recall that. Honestly, do not be terrified 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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