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MMCM - Ex Oblivione

MMCM - Ex Oblivione H.P. Lovecraft; Ex Oblivione (written 1920 to 1921; published 1921; The United Amateur, March 1921, amateur press magazine; under the pseudonym Ward Phillips) A nameless narrator recounts a dream found in a “dream-city” where an old papyrus contains the lore of dream-sages. The writing speaks of a golden valley, a sacred grove, and a high wall pierced by a small bronze gate. The narrator becomes fixated on that gate as a final answer to weariness. The dream turns into a journey. The narrator walks through landscapes that feel calm but not comforting in the ordinary sense, with ruins and ancient greenery suggesting ages beyond waking history. The bronze gate is not presented as a prize; it is presented as a threshold that promises an end to longing, fear, and striving. Standing before the gate, the narrator feels a pull that is half curiosity and half exhaustion. The act of opening it is not heroic. It is quiet and deliberate. The narrator chooses to pass beyond the gate, accepting the idea that what lies there is a merciful oblivion rather than knowledge, joy, or terror. The tale ends with surrender, not conquest. The narrator steps into the unknown behind the gate and embraces the extinction of self as relief, leaving the dream world and the waking world equally behind. --- Poppy hush in the throat. A valley of dim lilies. A road that forgets its own stones. I walked past the last house of the living, past the gate where the watchman turns away. In the air, a copper taste, in my palms, a cold that would not warm. A dog barked once, then swallowed it. Even the lamplight looked ashamed. I asked the old sellers for the map of release. They sold me a whisper in a paper fold, a place where the bronze stands shut, a place where the sky is still. Their hands were stained with resin. Their mouths stayed closed after the price. No hymn in the throat. No coin in the fist. Only a thin line forward, drawn on the inside of my wrist. Let the door be honest. Let the latch be clean. If I am only passing, let me pass unseen. The path narrowed into wet stone steps. My breath became a small machine. I heard my pulse in the walls, and the walls did not answer. A rivulet ran black beside my boots, carrying petals that would not sink. I kept my eyes on the hinge. I kept my hands clean. I kept my name behind me. I kept my breath from pleading. I came to the arch and did not pray. No choir. No angel. Only the patient metal and its seam. The stone held old damp air, as if the world had sweated here. My fingers found the notch, and the notch felt warm as skin. Let the door be honest. Let the latch be clean. If I am only passing. Let me pass unseen. Silence, then the latch. The world falls away without struggle. I step through. I do not bring anything back. No return.