More quarantine sadposting

For ten years of my life I have thought that I would be able to make at least a partial living from playing the cello. I no longer believe this is the case. I am disappointed in myself for having two degrees, one complete and one pending, in cello performance; I could have chosen something else something that would have given me broader qualifications. I feel a little useless and more than a little unwise. I’m not even that good a musician, but at least I can fake my way through it and give the impression that I know what I’m doing.

My life has changed in lockdown. I am no longer making music with others. I am no longer, really, doing anything of capitalist value. It is very difficult for me to remove myself from spirals of hating myself for being unproductive and in turn being even less productive. I am writing this blog post nine hours before an assignment is due; I have not begun writing the assignment.

It is difficult for me to think of any work as being meaningful right now. What is meaningful is the conversation I had with my sister last night, the fact that I am practising not always encasing my feelings in words, the time I have been making myself take to breathe and dig into myself and remind myself that I have a body and I need to take care of it. I have never wanted to work; I have never wanted to work as little as I do now. Work for the sake of making money is absolutely meaningless. Work for the sake of making someone’s life better is at least approaching meaning. The problem is that under the current form of capitalism we are forced to work for the sake of making money so that society will allow us to survive.

I am losing the energy to be angry. I am mostly sad and empty. I know I am not the only one who cares about this. One of my biggest personal difficulties is translating thoughts and ideas into actions. I am paralysed by the perception, perhaps not entirely true, that no matter what I do, it will never be enough. What is the point of a life that is always struggling to reach something that will never be within reach?

Being alone exacerbates everything. I must distract myself if I am to retain some semblance of sanity. I alone am responsible for myself — I find it increasingly difficult to reach out to anyone and ask for help. They can’t help. They can’t make the deadlines go away. They can’t hold me. They can’t tell me that things will be okay, because they’re hurting too.

Life is a struggle. I don’t want to struggle. I would be bored with nothing to do, but I have enough work to do on myself to fill several lifetimes. I fear that I will have almost no time. I fear that the work I have done so far is reversing and will continue to reverse simply because I will spend all of my energy either conforming to capitalism or struggling against it.

I’m scared. No one knows any answers. I wouldn’t believe anyone if they said I didn’t need to be scared.