Here is my dilemma...

I claim I like to write, but I don't write. I haven't written anything substantial in a long time. I wake up in the middle of the night sometimes with beautiful images in my head of f-16s and a jaded American pilot who drinks dood-patti while watching the sun rise across the tarmac of an American base in the Kuwaiti desert with a Bengali mechanic. He answers to both John and Yahya and he knows how kismet is really pronounced. Years later in the fading light of an alien sun he hums a barely remembered folk tune and piques the interest of one Lieutenant Ford.

"M7G-677, sir?" Ford asks his CO, remembering a song Cassa and her brother had sung under a tree while he introduced them to the joy of Hershey chocolate for the first time.

Beneath his aviator sunglasses (which are still worth a lot despite being slightly battered; three Athosian sheep on the mainland, according to Halling, and a whole slew of chocolate and PowerBars in Atlantis) the corners of his eyes crinkle in remembrance. John Sheppard smiles.

"Different planet, Lietenant," he replies.

Here is my dilemma. I claim I like to write, but I don't write. I lay awake in the middle of the night sometimes, my fingers itching for a pen as I dream of perfect snatches of worlds and words and stories that could be beautiful if I could just. Get. Them. Down. But the moment fades and the itch dulls and it becomes easy to slip into sleep and remember the next day that a perfectly formed dewdrop which can never be replaced was on the tip of my pen and my consciousness.