Dreams are a dime a dozen. The difference, of course, between Dreamers and Doers is execution. Dreamers jot down ideas by the truckloads in spiral-bound notebooks under the shade of bamboo shoots on beautiful autumn evenings. Dreamers are always imagining a better future from their comfortable, upholstered perch; they forever envision realms of the newly possible. A Doer is someone who starts in the same place but at some point grows so sufficiently frustrated, impatient, antsy, and restless that they simply need to act.
(At this point, it’s important to clarify: The need to act really isn’t so much a choice; but rather, it’s a compulsion. Not acting would be so unfathomably unbearable that non-action simply isn’t an option.)
From a thousand miles away, the vista is beautiful and breathtaking. But at the treeline, on the verge of that dark wood, it’s all terror.
Yet, guided by delusions of grandeur and fueled by unearned confidence, the Doer charges forth into the unknown. In the Doer’s mind, there is only conviction.
To some degree, a Doer is irresponsible. When a Doer embarks upon the Great Crusade it’s with only a vague notion of what the mission is. There is no exact plan, no precise blueprint. Instead, there exists only a foggy outline of what is to be accomplished. The Doer is equal parts daring and foolish, throwing caution to the wind in favor of action.
To be sure, plenty of Doers never make it to the other side. Hundreds of thousands fall somewhere in the great middle. That great expanse, the in-between, is littered with the corpses of millions who never make the distance. Some fall early; some fall late– but they are all casualties in making the attempt, felled chasing the green light.
A select few to make it to the other side. But then they still need to make it across the landmines. And survive the savage zombie wolves.
But is being torn viciously, in painstaking agony, limb from limb truly any worse than never having tried at all? Is it?