He shuts his eyes, and for a minute, there is an eerie silence.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he starts to feel the ground shaking.
The walls are dripping and there is a nasty soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he approaches the arena, he can begin to feel the stress grow in his upper shoulders.
This path has been journeyed by many and only returned on by few.
He attempts to breathe deep, only to be gripped by the feeling growing in his stomach.
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 dirt and sand below his feet.
There's a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, forecasting what's about 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 glistening with decorated steel. Piercing eyes as pointed as the harsh blade he holds. A body created for one thing - Elimination. His bellowing roar echoes throughout 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 safety of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the inescapable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his hard stomach sinks...but only for a second. He kneels down, grabs a handful of the dirt underneath him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sieve through his fingers. He runs his hand gently along the sharpened blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The scars on his body evoke memories of error, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the figure 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 seizes the handle and let's out a cry that will always 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 polished old wood and grips the sides of the podium.
He's prepared.
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. A great deal of the time of the time, that looming figure across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the specific act, but fear to literally accomplish something that you truly have been thinking about doing. It truly sounds strange initially, but it occurs. It's 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 must never be put out. We must not play tiny. The credit goes to the person who is trying and failing. It is not paid to those who look on a criticize that very same man for the things he does. Always remember that. 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 starts to feel the ground shaking.
The walls are dripping and there is a nasty soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he approaches the arena, he can begin to feel the stress grow in his upper shoulders.
This path has been journeyed by many and only returned on by few.
He attempts to breathe deep, only to be gripped by the feeling growing in his stomach.
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 dirt and sand below his feet.
There's a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, forecasting what's about 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 glistening with decorated steel. Piercing eyes as pointed as the harsh blade he holds. A body created for one thing - Elimination. His bellowing roar echoes throughout 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 safety of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the inescapable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his hard stomach sinks...but only for a second. He kneels down, grabs a handful of the dirt underneath him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sieve through his fingers. He runs his hand gently along the sharpened blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The scars on his body evoke memories of error, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the figure 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 seizes the handle and let's out a cry that will always 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 polished old wood and grips the sides of the podium.
He's prepared.
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. A great deal of the time of the time, that looming figure across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the specific act, but fear to literally accomplish something that you truly have been thinking about doing. It truly sounds strange initially, but it occurs. It's 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 must never be put out. We must not play tiny. The credit goes to the person who is trying and failing. It is not paid to those who look on a criticize that very same man for the things he does. Always remember that. 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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