After a Hiatus

[FYI that line came from the subject header of an email I received from a one time lover. I remember staring at the word 'hiatus' and thinking what a beautiful name it was for a flower, delicate and white-edged, soft and coloured with tinges of blue, purple. I remember thinking that like an orchid it would grow on dead plant life, wrapping itself around a rotting branch. Hiatus. Noun. I picked a hiatus from the riverside, he took her a bouquet of hiatus, et al]

Crunch time.

Forget all that has happened since I last blogged.

Oh and believe me, a lot has.

Crunch time.

I walk around grinding my teeth and counting anxiety attacks these days because I have no answer to the one question that will not go away.

Two years in America. They were meant to be an extended holiday, a decoration on the resume, a free ride.

It has been that. And without asking my permission, it has turned into something more.

I like this mud. I like the cold hardness of this new england ground. I like fall, the fact that every tree looks like its part of a great sacrificial fire to announce the death of the season. I like being alone here, having no face that looks like mine. I like the rocks, ice water, shellfish, sturdy boots that make up the everyday. I like the lack of a mob.
And now I can't leave.

And attempting to stay on beyond the stated finish line is driving me insane.

Truly, I am losing it. I dont sleep right. I dont eat right. I find it harder quitting smoking for good.

What do I do, O fair, brave and lone reader?
What do I, dilettante of the first order [yes it was spell checked]
deserve in the way of extended stays, and second chances?
How do I convince these americans that I am worthy of their grad school?
Am I worthy?
What will happen if I don't make it?


This fear is the most potent drug I have ever used. Or abused. It makes me see visions of natural disasters [last night I dreamt of a dam bursting] and feel the kind of sadness that belongs to old bag ladies singing to themselves in the NY greyhound station.

I weep like I've lost my mind. I listen to every song, choked up and tissue-filled. It's pathetic.

I have ignored laundry, physicals, haircuts, friends, blogging.

I want serenity. I want the ability to feel no fear.
I want out.
And there is no out. India is not an option, not now.
A happy-go-lucky, creative writing major with no actual work experience who's only training has been in being a wasafiri [google it]and writing critical annotations has no place in the good ol' home on the range.

I need a miracle. An act of god. Or faith.
Maybe a prayer.
Or maybe, a word from you. Whoever and whatever you are.

Any ideas?