Fractured Fragments of a Figment

So i have encountered a literary conundrum:
 Whilst as i writer i have this desperate urge to commit everything i see and hear and feel to paper, in the same fashion as perhaps an artist has to transcribe everything into art, or a musician to music, or a photographer to a photograph, IT IS NOT ENOUGH.
I feel that recording events upon paper, reflecting upon them, takes away from the moment; you take a little piece of that essence and make it your own and thus detract from the present. Imagine you go travelling somewhere and take a lot of photographs - when reminiscing, more likely than not, you will remember the people and places and things in the photographs more vividly than anything else, you will forget how it felt to be there, to completely and utterly absorb yourself in the moment, to get lost in the present. I feel that writing is the same.
Perhaps this is the curse of being a writer, the urge to constantly recreate and communicate your own reality. I will never be able to exactly recreate how it truly feels in this current moment, to sit on my roof in the afternoon sunlight, heat spilling onto my flesh through the red autumn leaves, a jam jar filled with beer by my side, you will never know, by reading this, how it feels, words are not enough Even just penning it here, on a computer screen, where the words are merely particles upon a screen and not even real physical entities i have detracted from the present, i have taken a little piece of it for myself and feel that i shouldn't - i should let the present BE. By thinking about the way in which the heat falls through the trees, by romanticising my current situation i am detracting from it, i am ignoring what it means to simply be here.
 I don't know what to do to resolve this issue, for simultaneously i cannot let this beauty and opportunity and sheer liquid life slip through my fingers. But for now, i shall get drunk on sunshine, on hot tubs in the darkness, on fairy wings and garlands of roses and bubbles in the forest, on didgeridoos and on masked balls, on writing to Bob Dylan, on the golden glitter lying on my roof, on socks and on sun hats, on birthday cakes upon the floorboards and candles and surrealist films. I will live for now and i will try my best to remember. For that is all any of us can really do. Right?