Because in order to really create something, something significant and objectively meaningful, you have to die. Perhaps an artist's death can be the greatest thing for their art; we've all seen it happen - but before their physical death, every creator has to undergo their apotheosis. You begin by questioning everything - yes, the foundations of your society - and arrive at a point where you believe you have finally discovered the world for the cannibalistic incest-rape that it actually is: and then you can begin. You begin to deconstruct yourself, your every past life and interminable moment of rumination, and the causes and effects and identity kits of your wants and needs and desires and fears, and you start cutting. You rip away at yourself, an ouroboros of pain addiction, tearing sinew from flesh until you find that at the heart of it all is nothing. There is no bottom, no core, no foundational truth upon which you can rely - cogito ergo cogito: there is no sum, all is tautology. Then, the iterative recursion of perception, and then, the iterative recursion of self-perception, and then, the recursion of iterative perception, and then the humming eternity. Through this background noise, you collapse into the singularity, and you die. The realization that you have always been dead is not lost upon you, but seems unworthwhile in exploring when you arrive at the place where there is no time.