He gently closes his eyes, and for a minute, there is deep silence.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he can 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 threshold, he can begin to feel the tension grow in his upper neck and back.
This trail has been journeyed by many and only returned on by few.
He tries to breathe deep, only to be gripped by the nervousness looming in his abdomen.
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 below his feet.
There is a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, forecasting what's about to come.
The gentle warmth of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his opponent.
There he stands, that looming 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 - Annihilation. 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 noble men look on with curiosity in the safety of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the inevitable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his stomach sinks...but only for a second. He kneels down, grabs a chunk of the dust below him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sift 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 scars on his body bring back memories of gaffe, 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 grips the handle and let's out a cry that will always be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open fast. 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 greatest arena. Most of the time, that approaching enemy across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the actual act, but fear to truly achieve something that you have been brooding about doing. It truly sounds strange at first hearing, however it happens. It's what keeps us from being great. That little fear of basically being a light out in the world for lots of people to see and for many to judge cannot ever be put out. We must not play small. The credit is paid to the man who is trying and failing. It is not paid to those who look on a criticise that honest man for the things he does. Always recall that. Do not be terrified of falling in the dust. Our scars beautifully outline our story, 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's a soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he climbs up to the threshold, he can begin to feel the tension grow in his upper neck and back.
This trail has been journeyed by many and only returned on by few.
He tries to breathe deep, only to be gripped by the nervousness looming in his abdomen.
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 below his feet.
There is a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, forecasting what's about to come.
The gentle warmth of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his opponent.
There he stands, that looming 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 - Annihilation. 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 noble men look on with curiosity in the safety of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the inevitable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his stomach sinks...but only for a second. He kneels down, grabs a chunk of the dust below him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sift 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 scars on his body bring back memories of gaffe, 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 grips the handle and let's out a cry that will always be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open fast. 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 greatest arena. Most of the time, that approaching enemy across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the actual act, but fear to truly achieve something that you have been brooding about doing. It truly sounds strange at first hearing, however it happens. It's what keeps us from being great. That little fear of basically being a light out in the world for lots of people to see and for many to judge cannot ever be put out. We must not play small. The credit is paid to the man who is trying and failing. It is not paid to those who look on a criticise that honest man for the things he does. Always recall that. Do not be terrified of falling in the dust. Our scars beautifully outline our story, 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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