11:01 AM
Unknown
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 is a nasty soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he approaches the threshold, he starts to feel the strain grow in his broad shoulders.
This trail has been walked by many and only returned on by few.
He tries to breathe deep, only to be choked out by the sensation growing 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 gravel and sand below his feet.
There's a small beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, forecasting what is to come.
The gentle warmth of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his adversary.
There he stands, that looming figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body glistening with hard steel. Piercing eyes as sharpened as the blade he holds. A body created for one thing - Destruction. His loud roar echoes across the arena.
As the crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with lust for the coming moment. The supreme and noble men look on with curiosity in the safeness of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the unavoidable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his stomach sinks...but only for a second. He kneels down, grabs a small handful of the dust below him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sift through his fingers. He runs his hand softly along the sharp blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The scarring on his body evoke memories of inaccuracy, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the opponent 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 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 takes a concentrated breath, slides his hands over the beautiful old wood and grips the sides of the speakers podium.
He is 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. A great deal of the time of the time, that looming figure across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the explicit act, but fear to literally accomplish something that you truly have been brooding about doing. It truly sounds strange at first, but it really happens. It is absolutely what keeps us from being great. That tiny fear of really being a light out in the world for many to see and for many to judge must not be put out. We must not play little. The credit goes to the person 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 focus on that. Don't be afraid of falling in the dust. Our scars outline our wonderful journey, and make it just that much more unique.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he will be able 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 threshold, he starts to feel the strain grow in his broad shoulders.
This trail has been walked by many and only returned on by few.
He tries to breathe deep, only to be choked out by the sensation growing 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 gravel and sand below his feet.
There's a small beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, forecasting what is to come.
The gentle warmth of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his adversary.
There he stands, that looming figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body glistening with hard steel. Piercing eyes as sharpened as the blade he holds. A body created for one thing - Destruction. His loud roar echoes across the arena.
As the crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with lust for the coming moment. The supreme and noble men look on with curiosity in the safeness of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the unavoidable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his stomach sinks...but only for a second. He kneels down, grabs a small handful of the dust below him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sift through his fingers. He runs his hand softly along the sharp blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The scarring on his body evoke memories of inaccuracy, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the opponent 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 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 takes a concentrated breath, slides his hands over the beautiful old wood and grips the sides of the speakers podium.
He is 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. A great deal of the time of the time, that looming figure across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the explicit act, but fear to literally accomplish something that you truly have been brooding about doing. It truly sounds strange at first, but it really happens. It is absolutely what keeps us from being great. That tiny fear of really being a light out in the world for many to see and for many to judge must not be put out. We must not play little. The credit goes to the person 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 focus on that. Don't be afraid of falling in the dust. Our scars outline our wonderful journey, 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