Planning. Planning.
Never have I gained anything by planning. The only thing that planning has ever done for me is make me want to do all the more what I have only been planning.
I have heard it said: Life is what happens when you are busy planning.
In my dream (or what I think now was just a dream), I was going at last. I was going to places I have only ever dreamt of. Places that I had planned to go to, and had been planning to go to for a long long time. And my plans were finally getting played out.
Those whom I loved were there. They were all coming. I was going with them to see the bazaars. The lovely houses that cradled the ledge of the mountain, and from whose open window we would drink tea and stare out at the vast layers of snowy mountains, still a safe distance away to not dampen the sunny skies. The shadowy trees that shelter birds and men and ladies when the clouds open up. The daisies that border the highway that smells like burnt rubber and baked earth in the sun. The shuffling clouds rubbing their wetness against the deep green hills.
I was going. And I had done away with the planning.
I ask for a moment's indulgence to sit by thy side. The works
that I have in hand I will finish afterwards.
Away from the sight of the face my heart knows no rest nor respite,
and my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil.
Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs; and
the bees are playing their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove.
Now it is time to sit quiet, face to face with thee, and to sing
dedication of life in this silent and overflowing leisure.
Rabindranath Tagore