I like problems. Mostly, insolvable ones. Take, for example, this thought:
It's these types of problems that keep my mind overly occupied at all times, day and night. Most would probably just scoff at trying to find meaning in ambiguity, but I find it intensely interesting.
In order to figure out such a problem, one must cross a barrier that cannot be uncrossed. Death's boundary is one that cannot be revoked at whim. Therefore the bounties, if any, within the sphere of non-living are forever obscured. There is no way to know what death feels like without succumbing to it. It is an unapologetic mystery.
This perhaps is why I hate the Netflix show, The OA. Any story or medium that attempts to oversimplify deeply impenetrable mysteries flounders into drivel. To explain death as a trap door into the fifth dimension not only oversimplifies the majesty of unknowing, but it stupefies it.
This is perhaps why Ernest Hemingway blew his head off; he had reached his wit's end and decided to see for himself. Or maybe it was the depression and the alcoholism. Either way, we'll never know, and to think you can find out is both a noble and a stupid endeavor.
Ironically enough, by searching for the answers of unanswerable questions, one runs into a fork in the road at which they must make a choice: continue scrambling for answers in the dark or move on. In moving on, there most likely will be an insight gained. In trying harder for more answers, nothing will be gained.
Thus as it turns out, the real crux is not the thought problem itself; it's where one thinks they can solve the problem at all.