Turtles All the Way Down

by John Green

But I was beginning to learn that your life is a story told about you, not one that you tell.

The thing about a spiral is, if you follow it inward, it never actually ends. It just keeps tightening, infinitely.

It’s quite rare to find someone who sees the same world you see.

“Your brain seems like a very intense place,”

“Fucking systemic oppression,”

I didn’t know if I should hug him, and he didn’t seem to know if he should hug me, so we just sort of stood there not touching, which to be honest is my preferred form of greeting.

“I don’t mind worriers,” I said. “Worrying is the correct worldview. Life is worrisome.”

Thoughts are only thoughts. They are not you.

For a moment, you think you’re better. You’ve just had a successful train of thought, with an engine and a caboose and everything. Your thoughts. Authored by you.

And along the way, I realize that I have agency over myself,

“You don’t have to be afraid of that thought. Thought is not action.”

I wasn’t sure whether life would be better frozen in this moment, or on the other side of the moment that was coming.