BEHOLD THE UNWIELDY BEAUTY OF THE MIDDLE ACT

Turning 40 has forced me to reckon with grief, mortality, survival, and the long shadow of time, but somewhere within life’s middle act, I’ve also found the clarity and joy to keep on going.

- INDRAN PARAMASIVAM

ARSENAL ARE NOW the champions of the Premier League. Thierry Henry, who made his reputation as one of the most entrancingly singular players in modern football while wearing the number 14 jersey for the club, shared an impassioned message directed at the squad that would have lifted the trophy by the time this issue is out: “From Highbury seats to the Emirates - Arsenal Nation, finally we can celebrate. Special thanks to this generation - finally now my kids saw us winning the league #goonerforlife.”

None of that has anything to do with this story, except to establish where we currently are in the timeline of civilisation: Arsenal have won the league.

Now, let's give June its due. Besides being a canvas of time loudly claimed by people who take being Geminis seriously, as well as the attendees of ‘summer’ festivals, it's also the chronological midpoint of the year. The moment where what's done is equidistant from what's to be. Because of when it occurs, it wields a special kind of defining power. In the context of the year, it can make or break how you feel about yourself in December.

The middle act has always frightened me precisely because it leaves nowhere to hide from the visible sum of your choices and scars.

40 IS THE ONLY 40