If every map is a story, most of them are mysteries that invite you to solve them while remaining forever unsolved, in that they indicate more — more past, more future, more adventures, more travels. They have an openness, indicating more than they depict.
Each of us is an atlas of sorts, already knowing how to navigate some portion of the world, containing innumerable versions of place as experience and desire and fear, as route and landmark and memory.
Each of us grasps and inhabits only part of the pattern.
Learning to read the storylines of Earth’s history directly from rocks can help to provide a feeling of embeddedness in the cosmos, a sense of continuity and kinship with past and future. Perhaps the most distinctive characteristic of geologic thinking is the practice of roaming freely across many scales in space and time. In doing so, we can see ourselves in miniature, part of a long lineage of creatures on a creative planet that has renewed itself for more than four billion years while keeping an idiosyncratic diary of its activities over time in the form of rocks. Rocks assure us that the past is no less real than the present.
Far from the air breathed by noisy people, the distance separates you from the surfaces, it does not cover any of them, you have finished walking the labyrinth, circulating in the architectures, tasting its lines of flight, colliding with its angles, sliding through the programmed virtual circuits of the past where others tell you, you drive, the leaves of the trees hollow out in pockets of wind, you forget the road, only let the water gathers you.
The earth,the wind fall and flow, the water gathers, the water rises, the water rises in silence, connects night to day, grows on the horizon, the water trembles the wind, suspends the round flights, wrinkles the clouds, water collects the remaining crashes of frosts and blazes, water disperses the wandering flowerless flowers, water collects the weary clouds and the sweat of the earth, water recomposes the lost colonies, the water loses memory and marries all forgetfulness, the rain falls, the water wriggles, dazzles as far as the eye can see, the water cracks, springs up in the caves, gleans the seeds, takes shelter in the fruits, water will not extinguish the fire, water will prefer the night.
Free like the first hunter-gatherer returning to the forest. The wild space resembles you. You stem the tide looking forward to change. New patterns of actions, new commandements where life eats the origins and is eaten by it.
You are eath and air and the curves of your figure are that of the water. And I am transformed into fire. If you are three of the tour elements… what is left of me is just one, and even this one is self -consuming.
Do not let the day end without having grown a bit, without being happy, without having risen your dreams. Do not let overcome by disappointment. Do not let anyone you remove the right to express yourself, which is almost a duty. Do not forsake the yearning to make your life something special.
Selbstwehr 
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