Winged-Escapist

I am dying. I am dying and there's nothing I can do about it. I know this, but I refuse to believe that I will just fade away quietly: that when I'm gone and when those that knew me are gone, that there will be nothing more of me in existence. I want to be remembered; I want to make a mark. Is it not the human condition to desire this? I feel that no matter what good thing I attempt to pursue, it takes me somewhere that I had never intended to be, and that much further from my goal. Every consequent step taking me further down a tangential path I never consciously made. I have two hands and a voice and the knowledge of how to use them, but I