Gaia Saravan
Gaia Saravan is an East-Coast based writer and currently an architecture student at Pratt Institute. Her works appear in Ubiquitous Literary & the Prattler Magazine, as well as on her blog, wordsbygaia.com.
Tip the author through CashApp $GaiaSaravan
Brain Scan of my Days
I am sent into the tube of luminescence, jazz music cupping my ears. It feels distant under the ticks and buffers of the machine.
My mother wanted to get all lab-work and exams done before I went off to college. Recently, I’ve been making up bodily issues. Migraines in the mornings and evenings. Stomach pain. They felt real to me, but the tests claim that I bluff.
The technician copied the MRI results onto a CD, and I asked her if it included the jazz. She laughed.
******
The world seemed ablaze in quiet chaos. I’ve adjusted to life at college by December, but I still have hallucinatory migraines from 4 in the morning to 8, and 5 in the evening to 11. Usually, coffee helps numb the pain but since I’ve drank too much of it, I’ve gained tolerance; it's paradoxical. There is no fix.
My favorite classes are the ones held in rooms with carpets and the rolling chairs and the long tables where everyone sits in a row, The Last Supper style. It gave me a desire for scholarly pursuits and a want to write more. Carpets were the physical embodiment of brown noise. The design of a space affects the mood of the body moving within it, I discussed with my Professor.
******
In high school, I had found Iselin, New Jersey suffocating and so it seemed somewhat unexpected that I took the train home every weekend willingly. I came to realize that I didn’t like New York as much as I thought I would. The glamor faded by October and all I was left with was an excessive amount of hand sanitizer after every subway trip and a fear for my safety when walking back from the studio at midnight. In January, I started opening transfer application accounts and sending email requests for my transcript. This city is not for me. I haven’t been there in years, but I missed India.
******
My last midterm pin-up took place just that morning, and I spent lunch with my friends eating a turkey & pesto sandwich and picking the wood splinters from the models out of my fingers. Rumor was that somebody was found dead at Higgins Hall during midterm week last year, supposedly from a lack of sleep. I did not want to meet that end, less because of a fear of death and more that it would be pathetic to die at Higgins Hall of all places, and so I decided to sleep early today. The last result of my medical tests came back later that day, and that prompted a series of texts from my father. He explained to me that these scans and tests were to give me a peace of mind, that nothing was wrong with my body, and that he knew this whole time that everything would come out to be normal. Perhaps it was a placebo effect, but the migraine stopped a little bit after that day, and the struggles of the past six months, just like that, became something of a distant memory. The blue light of the texts blinded me, and I fell asleep for an entire day.
******
The jellyfish were slippery and squishy under my fingertips. They weren’t real, of course, but I loved them like a pet nonetheless. I had to throw away the jellyfish lamp from a mold infestation. I barely had time to eat, let alone replace the water in the vessel, but I kept the jellyfish after rinsing them: they reminded me of Pondicherry moon jellyfish. These days, I start to think that I was never meant to be born in the Western world, and the path of my life has kept me hostage here. In layers, my brain fights out of my hometown, my residing city, and next, my country.
******
It is summer in New Jersey, which my mother calls roadkill season. They must have a self-destruct button, she claims. In waves, dead animals pile up, the carcass food for the birds. The same bodies rot over weeks. They change like stop motion, and I drive past the same body of a deer everyday. In August, a week before I leave Iselin, I finally saw the skull.
Gaia Saravan
Brain Scan of my Days
I am sent into the tube of luminescence, jazz music cupping my ears. It feels distant under the ticks and buffers of the machine.
My mother wanted to get all lab-work and exams done before I went off to college. Recently, I’ve been making up bodily issues. Migraines in the mornings and evenings. Stomach pain. They felt real to me, but the tests claim that I bluff.
The technician copied the MRI results onto a CD, and I asked her if it included the jazz. She laughed.
******
The world seemed ablaze in quiet chaos. I’ve adjusted to life at college by December, but I still have hallucinatory migraines from 4 in the morning to 8, and 5 in the evening to 11. Usually, coffee helps numb the pain but since I’ve drank too much of it, I’ve gained tolerance; it's paradoxical. There is no fix.
My favorite classes are the ones held in rooms with carpets and the rolling chairs and the long tables where everyone sits in a row, The Last Supper style. It gave me a desire for scholarly pursuits and a want to write more. Carpets were the physical embodiment of brown noise. The design of a space affects the mood of the body moving within it, I discussed with my Professor.
******
In high school, I had found Iselin, New Jersey suffocating and so it seemed somewhat unexpected that I took the train home every weekend willingly. I came to realize that I didn’t like New York as much as I thought I would. The glamor faded by October and all I was left with was an excessive amount of hand sanitizer after every subway trip and a fear for my safety when walking back from the studio at midnight. In January, I started opening transfer application accounts and sending email requests for my transcript. This city is not for me. I haven’t been there in years, but I missed India.
******
My last midterm pin-up took place just that morning, and I spent lunch with my friends eating a turkey & pesto sandwich and picking the wood splinters from the models out of my fingers. Rumor was that somebody was found dead at Higgins Hall during midterm week last year, supposedly from a lack of sleep. I did not want to meet that end, less because of a fear of death and more that it would be pathetic to die at Higgins Hall of all places, and so I decided to sleep early today. The last result of my medical tests came back later that day, and that prompted a series of texts from my father. He explained to me that these scans and tests were to give me a peace of mind, that nothing was wrong with my body, and that he knew this whole time that everything would come out to be normal. Perhaps it was a placebo effect, but the migraine stopped a little bit after that day, and the struggles of the past six months, just like that, became something of a distant memory. The blue light of the texts blinded me, and I fell asleep for an entire day.
******
The jellyfish were slippery and squishy under my fingertips. They weren’t real, of course, but I loved them like a pet nonetheless. I had to throw away the jellyfish lamp from a mold infestation. I barely had time to eat, let alone replace the water in the vessel, but I kept the jellyfish after rinsing them: they reminded me of Pondicherry moon jellyfish. These days, I start to think that I was never meant to be born in the Western world, and the path of my life has kept me hostage here. In layers, my brain fights out of my hometown, my residing city, and next, my country.
******
It is summer in New Jersey, which my mother calls roadkill season. They must have a self-destruct button, she claims. In waves, dead animals pile up, the carcass food for the birds. The same bodies rot over weeks. They change like stop motion, and I drive past the same body of a deer everyday. In August, a week before I leave Iselin, I finally saw the skull.
Gaia Saravan
Gaia Saravan is an East-Coast based writer and currently an architecture student at Pratt Institute. Her works appear in Ubiquitous Literary & the Prattler Magazine, as well as on her personal blog, wordsbygaia.com.
Gaia Saravan
Gaia Saravan is an East-Coast based writer and currently an architecture student at Pratt Institute. Her works appear in Ubiquitous Literary & the Prattler Magazine, as well as on her blog, wordsbygaia.com.
Tip the author through CashApp $GaiaSaravan
Brain Scan of my Days
I am sent into the tube of luminescence, jazz music cupping my ears. It feels distant under the ticks and buffers of the machine.
My mother wanted to get all lab-work and exams done before I went off to college. Recently, I’ve been making up bodily issues. Migraines in the mornings and evenings. Stomach pain. They felt real to me, but the tests claim that I bluff.
The technician copied the MRI results onto a CD, and I asked her if it included the jazz. She laughed.
******
The world seemed ablaze in quiet chaos. I’ve adjusted to life at college by December, but I still have hallucinatory migraines from 4 in the morning to 8, and 5 in the evening to 11. Usually, coffee helps numb the pain but since I’ve drank too much of it, I’ve gained tolerance; it's paradoxical. There is no fix.
My favorite classes are the ones held in rooms with carpets and the rolling chairs and the long tables where everyone sits in a row, The Last Supper style. It gave me a desire for scholarly pursuits and a want to write more. Carpets were the physical embodiment of brown noise. The design of a space affects the mood of the body moving within it, I discussed with my Professor.
******
In high school, I had found Iselin, New Jersey suffocating and so it seemed somewhat unexpected that I took the train home every weekend willingly. I came to realize that I didn’t like New York as much as I thought I would. The glamor faded by October and all I was left with was an excessive amount of hand sanitizer after every subway trip and a fear for my safety when walking back from the studio at midnight. In January, I started opening transfer application accounts and sending email requests for my transcript. This city is not for me. I haven’t been there in years, but I missed India.
******
My last midterm pin-up took place just that morning, and I spent lunch with my friends eating a turkey & pesto sandwich and picking the wood splinters from the models out of my fingers. Rumor was that somebody was found dead at Higgins Hall during midterm week last year, supposedly from a lack of sleep. I did not want to meet that end, less because of a fear of death and more that it would be pathetic to die at Higgins Hall of all places, and so I decided to sleep early today. The last result of my medical tests came back later that day, and that prompted a series of texts from my father. He explained to me that these scans and tests were to give me a peace of mind, that nothing was wrong with my body, and that he knew this whole time that everything would come out to be normal. Perhaps it was a placebo effect, but the migraine stopped a little bit after that day, and the struggles of the past six months, just like that, became something of a distant memory. The blue light of the texts blinded me, and I fell asleep for an entire day.
******
The jellyfish were slippery and squishy under my fingertips. They weren’t real, of course, but I loved them like a pet nonetheless. I had to throw away the jellyfish lamp from a mold infestation. I barely had time to eat, let alone replace the water in the vessel, but I kept the jellyfish after rinsing them: they reminded me of Pondicherry moon jellyfish. These days, I start to think that I was never meant to be born in the Western world, and the path of my life has kept me hostage here. In layers, my brain fights out of my hometown, my residing city, and next, my country.
******
It is summer in New Jersey, which my mother calls roadkill season. They must have a self-destruct button, she claims. In waves, dead animals pile up, the carcass food for the birds. The same bodies rot over weeks. They change like stop motion, and I drive past the same body of a deer everyday. In August, a week before I leave Iselin, I finally saw the skull.
Gaia Saravan
Gaia Saravan is an East-Coast based writer and currently an architecture student at Pratt Institute. Her works appear in Ubiquitous Literary & the Prattler Magazine, as well as on her blog, wordsbygaia.com.
Tip the author through CashApp $GaiaSaravan
Brain Scan of my Days
I am sent into the tube of luminescence, jazz music cupping my ears. It feels distant under the ticks and buffers of the machine.
My mother wanted to get all lab-work and exams done before I went off to college. Recently, I’ve been making up bodily issues. Migraines in the mornings and evenings. Stomach pain. They felt real to me, but the tests claim that I bluff.
The technician copied the MRI results onto a CD, and I asked her if it included the jazz. She laughed.
******
The world seemed ablaze in quiet chaos. I’ve adjusted to life at college by December, but I still have hallucinatory migraines from 4 in the morning to 8, and 5 in the evening to 11. Usually, coffee helps numb the pain but since I’ve drank too much of it, I’ve gained tolerance; it's paradoxical. There is no fix.
My favorite classes are the ones held in rooms with carpets and the rolling chairs and the long tables where everyone sits in a row, The Last Supper style. It gave me a desire for scholarly pursuits and a want to write more. Carpets were the physical embodiment of brown noise. The design of a space affects the mood of the body moving within it, I discussed with my Professor.
******
In high school, I had found Iselin, New Jersey suffocating and so it seemed somewhat unexpected that I took the train home every weekend willingly. I came to realize that I didn’t like New York as much as I thought I would. The glamor faded by October and all I was left with was an excessive amount of hand sanitizer after every subway trip and a fear for my safety when walking back from the studio at midnight. In January, I started opening transfer application accounts and sending email requests for my transcript. This city is not for me. I haven’t been there in years, but I missed India.
******
My last midterm pin-up took place just that morning, and I spent lunch with my friends eating a turkey & pesto sandwich and picking the wood splinters from the models out of my fingers. Rumor was that somebody was found dead at Higgins Hall during midterm week last year, supposedly from a lack of sleep. I did not want to meet that end, less because of a fear of death and more that it would be pathetic to die at Higgins Hall of all places, and so I decided to sleep early today. The last result of my medical tests came back later that day, and that prompted a series of texts from my father. He explained to me that these scans and tests were to give me a peace of mind, that nothing was wrong with my body, and that he knew this whole time that everything would come out to be normal. Perhaps it was a placebo effect, but the migraine stopped a little bit after that day, and the struggles of the past six months, just like that, became something of a distant memory. The blue light of the texts blinded me, and I fell asleep for an entire day.
******
The jellyfish were slippery and squishy under my fingertips. They weren’t real, of course, but I loved them like a pet nonetheless. I had to throw away the jellyfish lamp from a mold infestation. I barely had time to eat, let alone replace the water in the vessel, but I kept the jellyfish after rinsing them: they reminded me of Pondicherry moon jellyfish. These days, I start to think that I was never meant to be born in the Western world, and the path of my life has kept me hostage here. In layers, my brain fights out of my hometown, my residing city, and next, my country.
******
It is summer in New Jersey, which my mother calls roadkill season. They must have a self-destruct button, she claims. In waves, dead animals pile up, the carcass food for the birds. The same bodies rot over weeks. They change like stop motion, and I drive past the same body of a deer everyday. In August, a week before I leave Iselin, I finally saw the skull.
Gaia Saravan
Brain Scan of my Days
I am sent into the tube of luminescence, jazz music cupping my ears. It feels distant under the ticks and buffers of the machine.
My mother wanted to get all lab-work and exams done before I went off to college. Recently, I’ve been making up bodily issues. Migraines in the mornings and evenings. Stomach pain. They felt real to me, but the tests claim that I bluff.
The technician copied the MRI results onto a CD, and I asked her if it included the jazz. She laughed.
******
The world seemed ablaze in quiet chaos. I’ve adjusted to life at college by December, but I still have hallucinatory migraines from 4 in the morning to 8, and 5 in the evening to 11. Usually, coffee helps numb the pain but since I’ve drank too much of it, I’ve gained tolerance; it's paradoxical. There is no fix.
My favorite classes are the ones held in rooms with carpets and the rolling chairs and the long tables where everyone sits in a row, The Last Supper style. It gave me a desire for scholarly pursuits and a want to write more. Carpets were the physical embodiment of brown noise. The design of a space affects the mood of the body moving within it, I discussed with my Professor.
******
In high school, I had found Iselin, New Jersey suffocating and so it seemed somewhat unexpected that I took the train home every weekend willingly. I came to realize that I didn’t like New York as much as I thought I would. The glamor faded by October and all I was left with was an excessive amount of hand sanitizer after every subway trip and a fear for my safety when walking back from the studio at midnight. In January, I started opening transfer application accounts and sending email requests for my transcript. This city is not for me. I haven’t been there in years, but I missed India.
******
My last midterm pin-up took place just that morning, and I spent lunch with my friends eating a turkey & pesto sandwich and picking the wood splinters from the models out of my fingers. Rumor was that somebody was found dead at Higgins Hall during midterm week last year, supposedly from a lack of sleep. I did not want to meet that end, less because of a fear of death and more that it would be pathetic to die at Higgins Hall of all places, and so I decided to sleep early today. The last result of my medical tests came back later that day, and that prompted a series of texts from my father. He explained to me that these scans and tests were to give me a peace of mind, that nothing was wrong with my body, and that he knew this whole time that everything would come out to be normal. Perhaps it was a placebo effect, but the migraine stopped a little bit after that day, and the struggles of the past six months, just like that, became something of a distant memory. The blue light of the texts blinded me, and I fell asleep for an entire day.
******
The jellyfish were slippery and squishy under my fingertips. They weren’t real, of course, but I loved them like a pet nonetheless. I had to throw away the jellyfish lamp from a mold infestation. I barely had time to eat, let alone replace the water in the vessel, but I kept the jellyfish after rinsing them: they reminded me of Pondicherry moon jellyfish. These days, I start to think that I was never meant to be born in the Western world, and the path of my life has kept me hostage here. In layers, my brain fights out of my hometown, my residing city, and next, my country.
******
It is summer in New Jersey, which my mother calls roadkill season. They must have a self-destruct button, she claims. In waves, dead animals pile up, the carcass food for the birds. The same bodies rot over weeks. They change like stop motion, and I drive past the same body of a deer everyday. In August, a week before I leave Iselin, I finally saw the skull.
Gaia Saravan
Gaia Saravan is an East-Coast based writer and currently an architecture student at Pratt Institute. Her works appear in Ubiquitous Literary & the Prattler Magazine, as well as on her blog, wordsbygaia.com.