Some borders can not be moved with fingers. Some borders are moved by the will, wish, struggle, everyday struggle.
Drop by drop of blood, drop by drop of sweat, drop, tear, ocean.

I no longer want to try to move them. From now on I tear them down with my bare hands, fingers scratched to the bones, I bite and rip with my teeth until I'm left alone in the wasteland.
Borders do not exist. I dig out all feelings that were hidden, pushed aside, forgotten, shoved under the rug, tamed. I pull out anger, hatred and bitterness from the depths of my soul, I release them to roam free, I open Pandora's box and let them all out to create chaos, to destroy and to hate, to rage and ravage until all that's left is one big and empty nothing, until I, myself am left empty and clear, and free.
An empty paper sheet, something that has yet to start, something that's about to become, something that breaths and sings and screams and exists, something that still just threatens to conquer the world, confident, with a carefree, rebellious grin on the face.
Something wild and indocile, something that doesn't care, something that threatens to become in spite of everything, something that doesn't care about your opinion, because it does not exist for you, it does not exist to be liked by you, it does not exist to be appropriate, to fit in, to comply, to please you.
That something doesn't need you to exist.
It exists in spite of you, in spite of the world, just for itself.