Idle thoughts on a sleepless Sunday night

I still can't fall asleep until well past midnight on Sunday nights. I always thought that it was mostly due the the fact that I have to get up in four-five hours to catch a flight in the morning, but I'm realizing that it's more the function of how I spent my weekend which dictates this sleeplessness. There are only 52 weekends in a year, half of them are consumed by obligations to others, it's already May in 2006, and the second hand sweeps across the clock face in a viciously steady and unrelenting pace. 18 weekends down, 34 weekends left; less than 2/3 remaining in 2006. And I'm so afraid that these will also pass me by in a blur. As it has in 2005. And 2004. And 2003. And so on and so forth.

Being up on Sunday night in a state of mild paranoia is a terrible curse. I upload my photos off of the camera. I flip through coffee table magazines. Read a few pages into the current reading. Get a glass of water. Surf through a few random sites. Peck away on the keyboards. An hour passes, yet still the same. Tomorrow will be the same, "another Monday." I'm afraid to sleep.

A thought I'm chewing on tonight:

I've been on a path where I've been constructing my own version of what I deemed is truth; and it's a collage of different thoughts and ideas that I've accumulated over the years, that's been shaped by the influence of others' thoughts and ideas. Yet I'm realizing that no matter how great an idea sounds, or how beautifully a theory seems to explain so many things, they always leave little room for better ideas or more brilliant ideas to trump them, eventually. I (not so humbly) always thought that it was just a part of maturing and developing, but I'm beginning to rethink this with a very critical outlook. There's a need for truth that is so beyond reproach that there's no hunger for 'more' (as in something beyond it to make it whole) but simply a passion for 'more of it' (as in another way this truth turns light upon what once was obfuscated).