He shuts his eyes, and for a minute, there's silence.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he starts to feel the ground shaking.
The walls are dripping and there's a soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he approaches the arena, he starts to feel the tension grow in his broad shoulders.
This path has been walked by many and only returned on by few.
He makes an attempt 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 dirt and sand below his feet.
There is a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, anticipating what's 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 decorated steel. Piercing eyes as sharpened as the harsh blade he holds. A body created for one thing - Elimination. His roar echoes across and out of the arena.
As the crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with anticipation. The noble men look on with curiosity in the safeness of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the inescapable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his gut 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 sift through his fingers. He runs his hand gently along the sharp blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The thick scars on his body evoke memories of error, 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 squeezes 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 paused and takes a concentrated breath, slides his hands over the polished old wood and grips the sides of the lectern.
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 grandest arena. Much of the time, that fierce figure across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the specific act, but fear to truly achieve something that you have been considering doing. It truly sounds strange initially, but it happens to many. It is absolutely what keeps us from being great. That tiny fear of actually being a light out in the world for people to see and for many to judge cannot ever be put out. We must not play little. The credit is paid to the person who is trying and failing. It is not paid to people who look on a criticize that honest man for the things he is doing. Always focus on that. Honestly, do not be terrified of falling in the dust. Our scars beautifully outline our story, and make it just that much more unique.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he starts to feel the ground shaking.
The walls are dripping and there's a soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he approaches the arena, he starts to feel the tension grow in his broad shoulders.
This path has been walked by many and only returned on by few.
He makes an attempt 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 dirt and sand below his feet.
There is a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, anticipating what's 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 decorated steel. Piercing eyes as sharpened as the harsh blade he holds. A body created for one thing - Elimination. His roar echoes across and out of the arena.
As the crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with anticipation. The noble men look on with curiosity in the safeness of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the inescapable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his gut 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 sift through his fingers. He runs his hand gently along the sharp blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The thick scars on his body evoke memories of error, 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 squeezes 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 paused and takes a concentrated breath, slides his hands over the polished old wood and grips the sides of the lectern.
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 grandest arena. Much of the time, that fierce figure across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the specific act, but fear to truly achieve something that you have been considering doing. It truly sounds strange initially, but it happens to many. It is absolutely what keeps us from being great. That tiny fear of actually being a light out in the world for people to see and for many to judge cannot ever be put out. We must not play little. The credit is paid to the person who is trying and failing. It is not paid to people who look on a criticize that honest man for the things he is doing. Always focus on that. Honestly, do not be terrified of falling in the dust. Our scars beautifully outline our story, and make it just that much more unique.
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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