tonight i found myself on a flight from Boston to Beijing, with a stop in Chicago. I am not sure why I got off the plane in Chicago. Was it fear? Was it laziness about coming up with another excuse for not showing up at work for the 2nd day in a row? What force of habit, what currents carried me off the plane? what force, what currents lured me into eating terrible airport pizza yet again? my body and mind should know better by now, don’t you think?

All of these thoughts, circumambulating in my head as i bustled off to baggage claim. but then, suddenly a flash and I ran back to the gate as quick as quick can be. By the time I reached the gate, they had already closed the door. I pounded on it with all of the power I could summon, and hammering at the steel door with  my fists, arm and knuckles until they bled, I called out, “let me in! let me in!”

but my pleas never did not make it through the door. perhaps i was using the wrong language. the right language seems to elude me in all of these inconvenient ways. And that partially explains why I take the right flights, but then end up in the wrong destination.