He shuts 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 is a soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he climbs up to the threshold, he can begin to feel the stress grow in his upper back and neck.
This path has been traveled by many and only returned on by few.
He makes an attempt to breathe deep, only to be choked by the sensation 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 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 competitor.
There he stands, that looming figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body glistening with hard steel. Piercing eyes as sharpened as the harsh blade he holds. A body intended for one thing - Elimination. His roar echoes throughout the arena.
As the quiet 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 just for a second. He kneels down, grabs a handful of the mud below 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 inaccuracy, 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 seizes 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 deep breath, slides his hands over the polished old wood and grips the sides of the lectern.
He is now finally 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 arena. Most of the time, that fierce opponent across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the specific act, but fear to literally achieve something that you truly have been thinking about doing. It really sounds unusual initially, but it really happens. It's 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 small. 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 does. Always recall that. Honestly, do not be fearful of falling in the dust. Our scars define our journey, 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 is a soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he climbs up to the threshold, he can begin to feel the stress grow in his upper back and neck.
This path has been traveled by many and only returned on by few.
He makes an attempt to breathe deep, only to be choked by the sensation 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 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 competitor.
There he stands, that looming figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body glistening with hard steel. Piercing eyes as sharpened as the harsh blade he holds. A body intended for one thing - Elimination. His roar echoes throughout the arena.
As the quiet 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 just for a second. He kneels down, grabs a handful of the mud below 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 inaccuracy, 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 seizes 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 deep breath, slides his hands over the polished old wood and grips the sides of the lectern.
He is now finally 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 arena. Most of the time, that fierce opponent across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the specific act, but fear to literally achieve something that you truly have been thinking about doing. It really sounds unusual initially, but it really happens. It's 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 small. 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 does. Always recall that. Honestly, do not be fearful of falling in the dust. Our scars define our 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
No comments:
Post a Comment