If you and the other fatalists cum antinatalists can describe everything as inevitably leading to a shit pile, I don't see why I can't describe the same things as at least possibly leading to a rose garden--just no promises. — Bitter Crank
Entropy, the acceleration of decay. The rose garden is a second-order establishment, built upon a pile of fertilizer (manure).
I don't know about the other people arguing here and what they think about happiness or contentedness or happy-endings, but in my opinion, the rose-garden, white picket fence, happy spouse and a charming lifestyle exist only in the movies. If they exist in the real world, they last for a short time, and are not guaranteed to everyone (some people have an unfair advantage over others, a "head-start" that actually keeps them ahead while pushing everyone else behind). Every once in a while you'll hear about the self-made man who built himself up from the shreds of poverty, and this is supposed to inspire and motivate people to work hard and achieve their dreams. It's all just a joke, unfortunately. It's a nice little narrative to keep people dreaming, and insofar as you are under the influence of the dream, everything seems alright. The hero that built himself up no doubt tried hard (which should be enough to show how faulty this system is...a person has to work their asses off just to make a living), but also was extraordinarily lucky. For there are tens of millions of people just like him who would kill for that kind of opportunity.
This is the crux of my pessimism: it is not that life is unbearably bad at all times and that at every moment of my life I wish I could die (can't say anything about anyone else here though), but rather that I have, at least from my perspective, taken off the rose-tinted glasses and seen life for what it is: it's an ugly, pointless, harsh, depriving, harmful and disgusting cycle of desire, disappointment, regret, conflict (competition), pain, and death, and the nature of the beast is hidden just in case you limit your attention to the incoming blows that threaten your very existence. It seems as though this evaluation can only occur if you are lucky enough to not have to scruple for crumbs every day of your life. Thus, why philosophers like Schopenhauer who lived a rather posh and privileged lifestyle were given the opportunity to reflect upon the lives of others and themselves.
I liken my pessimism (which leads to my antinatalism) to being a soldier in the front lines of battle, seeing his fellow platoon mates yell as more and more shells explode in front of them. I'm stuck in no-man's-land (just as everyone else is), viewing the pointless carnage, and then I hear the whistle as the captain, safe behind the trenches, sends another wave of men out to die (analogous to birth). You can hear the charade, the trumpet fanfare, the shouts of victory and triumph for the first initial seconds as the men sprint on the field, unaware of the nature of the game, high on adrenaline and ambition. Each man has dreams, each man wants to be a hero, but no man wants to die. But from the collective frenzy of fear and group habit, each man runs out anyway.
Hearing the scream as a bullet barely misses me, I sigh in relief even as I hear the squelch of the bullet hit a man next to me. But it's not
me that the bullet hit. It's not
me that is suffering. There's no need to worry about life!, just keep running blindly into the minefield! You'll be
fine!...
But where to run
to? Do we just keep running forward blindly? What's the goal? What's the end-point? There's hardly enough time actually stop running and appreciate some of the aesthetics of life before you have to go back to dodging and running. We are, in Heidegger's words, Beings-Towards-Death.
In the end, as each and every one of us lies dying on the field, never reaching the end, what will come to mind? Surely we have to justify this wreck. Surely there has to be a
point to all this conflict. There's
got to be a point...right? Those white-picket fences, those cute little puppies, the smell of fresh-cut grass...is
that it?! What are we fighting for?!
Perhaps you and others think that this analogy is too dark and repetitive. To this I only have to say that if our lives weren't filled with suffering, we'd have to fill them with an empathetic substitute (entertainment). We enjoy seeing others squirm on television, so long as it is not ourselves that is squirming. And we enjoy drinking the kool-aid when we listen to the few lucky people who somehow managed to not get hit by a bullet during their run of life, because it helps us pull ourselves up by the bootstraps and keep us from questioning the unquestionable, from realizing how each and every one of us is a ticking time bomb, and that all of us have a delicate, precarious disposition to suicide.
This response turned out to be longer than I expected. But I'd like to end by saying that what I experience is a profound feeling of disillusionment and, at times, despair, regarding the hopelessness and pointlessness of the world, and that I have absolutely no desire to bring this upon another person and because of this I wish nobody wished this to be so. Perhaps this is why I enjoy amateur astronomy so much: I can look out into the heavens and know that the beautiful cloud of dust that I am viewing is most likely toxic to life as we know it and will not harbor the same horrors that exist on this planet.