To be or not to be?

When it comes to existential angst, that is the ultimate question, isn't it? Continue drifting aimlessly or end the pretense? At this point, I'm not particularly bothered by what dreams may come, because I think that, with apologies to both Shakespeare and Raymond Chandler, the end is not really a big sleep but more like sweet oblivion. That notion goes against everything I've been taught and believed until now. Is this what it's like to lose one's sanity / lucidity / faith / whatever? Discuss.