Scrolls in the Dark: A Hermetic Dream Revisited
It happened years ago, in Kuala Terengganu, sometime around 1999 — back when the coastline still whispered secrets and my nights were long and full of questions. A close friend, a doctor from Iraq, had introduced me to the arcane teachings of Hermeticism, that strange and ancient stream of wisdom said to flow from Hermes Trismegistus, or perhaps Thoth — the Egyptian scribe of the gods.
Not long after that, I had a dream.
I was younger then, still unsure how to carry the weight of inner visions. In the dream, I found myself running through the narrow, torchlit alleys of ancient Egypt. The buildings were tall and close, the air tense with danger. I held a bundle of scrolls — architectural plans, perhaps, or sacred writings — something I knew I was not meant to lose.
I was being pursued. By whom, I couldn’t say. But the fear was real. It was the fear of being caught with something forbidden, something powerful. The kind of fear that comes not from guilt, but from knowing too much in a world that punishes knowing.
I turned corners quickly, my sandals slapping against the stone, until I emerged into a larger street — a thoroughfare, bustling even at night. People sat at low tables, drinking, talking. There were coffee shops, familiar in a way both modern and ancient. I slipped into one quietly, sat in the shadows, and watched the street. My pursuers did not appear. The scrolls were still with me. I was safe. Then I woke.
At the time, I filed the dream away, unsure what to make of it. I was just beginning to dance with these teachings — Hermetic principles, the Emerald Tablet, the whispers of Thoth. But over the years, that same dream would resurface every time I revisited the subject. It came back like an echo, like an old friend with unfinished business.
Now, looking back through the lens of lived years, of quiet nights in Zen silence and loud days among fishermen and refinery men — I understand more.
The dream was not a fantasy. It was a message in symbols.
The scrolls were not just objects — they were my own sacred work, carried across time. My sketchbooks, journals, visions, and writings — all the things I’ve tried to preserve even when I didn’t fully understand why. I’ve carried them through spiritual upheaval, through exile, through personal grief and revelation. Perhaps I’ve been guarding them from the parts of the world not yet ready to see.
And the pursuit? That was the pressure of a world that often fears what it cannot categorize. That mistrusts those who carry ancient knowing without a title, a robe, or a shield of institutional authority. The world that tells artists and seekers: you’re dreaming too much, too deeply, too dangerously.
But the dream ends not in destruction — it ends in sanctuary. A coffee shop on a Cairo night. A safe corner in the marketplace of souls. A place where ancient and modern blend — where perhaps now, finally, it’s time to unroll the scrolls and share what’s inside.
There is no need to run.
#Hermeticism #DreamWork #Thoth #MysticArchitecture #ScrollsOfTheSoul #KualaTerengganuNights #ScribeOfTheSpirit #PersonalMyth #AlchemyWithin #AsAboveSoBelow
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