(PH) Our search for the end of Questioning

My bone-encrusted fat blob is sick of eating itself alive.
Could that be why so many creative geniuses kill themselves? I'm certainly safe if that's the case.
Thinking about it though, there are no true answers to be found. This blob of brain matter is working over time for nothing? In the buddhist sense there is no absolute. Direct that to the world of posing questions and you realize that one question merely raises more. You cannot find an absolute answer to a question. Unless you're a fact genius.
Perhaps these creative geniuses have figured out that the value of life is arbitrary, but they just can't accept it. After all, to determine that your life's work is arbitrary is kind of like saying that the work does nothing. However, emotional value and life enrichment tend to be integral parts of living a contented life, so creative geniuses do not despair.
As for Fact geniuses, they seem to have something to rely on; assigned values that are concrete and numerical, giving significance to a life of searching. An answer can be found, and the brain briefly satisified.
This whole discussion started for me after thinking about creative geniuses who have committed suicide. Depression, anger or grief over how their work is portrayed or used (think kurt cobain), outside life unhappiness, etc. are all typical suicide reasonings. But what if there's a thread of thought that is a bit more subconcious, a spiral of mental activity that lends it's self to the toilet bowl effect. The brain continues chasing itself, looking for more meaning, taking in more details and providing wilder explanations for queries and strings of thought loosely tied together. After a while, the brain loses touch with what we call reality, growing more expansive in its reach for explanations and connections.
Drugs seem to send people on an accelerated pace to this mind-boundary. There are very few who would argue with me if I said that drugs have produced some interesting as well as absolutely breath-taking work. We can't deny the sheer creative genius of somebody like Hendrix or Hunter S. Thompson. But many times, at the end of the road the brain is burnt and smoldering, sputtering out random sentence fragments and disconnected thought-strains. The drugs took hold, bringing the brain beyond its creative threshold.
Bob Dylan. Try to look me in the eyes and tell me that he would have been exactly the same without doing a few drugs.
Or that's an explanation in it's own right. The brain only has so much creative juice, and after a while the creativity reaches a no-man's land, or implodes on itself like a neutron star. The drugs are merely rocket fuel.

I feel like I should be waving from that space right now!