Dear Sleep, I love you.

What I love is my cousin Nikhil. I wish he'd known that...perhaps he wouldn't have killed himself. Sometimes I think he did know and still made the choice to do such a hurtful act - I'm not sure which truth I find harder to accept. The question leads me to question the whole idea of truth. It seems like a surreal concept that people can be so passionate about. We try to associate it with logic and fact when really it's a matter of perspective and individual experience. While in Paris to identify Nikhil's body I tried to put together the pieces of what happened. This was my funny younger cousin, from India, who insisted on moving to France to attend a top school, received a scholarship and was living what he described as his dreams. Three days passed full of translating French to English in my brain then to Hindi for Nikhil's father who understandably was devastated. In a state of confusion on how his dream turned into this nightmare, I even went back to Paris a second time on a  search for the 'truth' on what transpired. I spoke to as many people as possible - taking notes, asking questions trying to make some sense of what could have driven him to make that choice. I still have all the notes tucked away safely in an envelope marked 'Important Documents.' As I slowly accept I will never really know because no one but him knew what he was thinking, I acknowledge that I may never open the envelope again. I will keep it tucked away like the whole gut-wrenching experience. The mere thought of the topic is so draining that it brings me to the thing I really love which is sleep.

I absolutely adore sleep. My appreciation for it has grown rapidly. It's a need and a luxury all wrapped up in one. It's a time of rest and distance from my own thoughts and I can't seem to shake my desire for it. Even now, as I write, it feels like my sleep is calling my name, inviting me into the blissful place of comfort. I have the ability to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, the kind insomniacs pray for. At times this feels like a gift and a curse. Part of my brain is aware it's an unproductive habit. Sleep isn't helping me find a new career, it doesn't make me feel loved, it doesn't help me get my homework in on time or lose the 27 pounds I managed to gain within the past year but I still love it. It's all I want to do during the days. Sometimes I wake up early on a Saturday just to create the opportunity to indulge in an afternoon nap. My love for it transcends places and temperatures. Cold, rain, sun - I enjoy sleep in all settings and temperatures. My favourite place to sleep is on the beach, with sun on my face with the sound of the ocean. A big, plush bed with the sound of the rain is a close second. For my birthday this past year, I travelled to Lanzarote in the Canary Islands and indulged in daily afternoon naps in my own little beach cave. As a result, I remember it as one of my best trips.

Two years ago I was working 60 hours a week, working out at least an hour a day, socialising and thriving off a mere six hours of sleep. I used to brag about how little sleep I needed. Now sometimes even after I wake up from a nine hour slumber and have a coffee, I'm exhausted. The more I sleep, the more tired I feel. Now I know this may sound like I have a 'problem' or have slipped into a form of 'depression.' You may be thinking I'm a certified 'sleep addict' in the midst of a downward spiral due to the experience of losing a loved one but the bizarre thing is, I'm generally a very positive person. I meditate regularly, I believe in the attitude of gratitude - I even keep a little gratitude jar full of post-its where I write down my many blessings. The people I love come to me to talk about their problems and I'm fortunate when they select me as someone to listen to them or even offer advice. I understand loss is a shared, human experience and death is a reality of life. What I don't understand anymore is what about life is really better than sleep. I appreciate my family, my friends, laughter - all these things are in my gratitude jar but I just don't feel they compare to the joy of sleep (sleep is also in my jar, perhaps on more then one post-it). The warmth of a soft blanket, the cosy feeling of a perfect mattress, the bliss felt right before drifting off into a deep sleep - it's such a peaceful experience. I know I can't pass my life in a slumber but a part of me wants to. Even in my happiest moments full of energy and laughter, a small part of me is looking forward to slipping into my bed. Even now as I'm typing, writing, creating and enjoying it as  healing, expressive process, I'm looking forward to finishing so I can crawl into my bed.