Here is the English translation of your text. I have preserved the precise philosophical nuances, the poetic and meditative rhythm, and the clean structure we refined.
What is God?
The title is already wrong. Not because the answer is unknown, but because the entire question is constructed from local axioms of this level of reality.
"What" assumes that objects exist. "Is" assumes that existence is a fundamental category. "God" assumes that there is something separate from the rest of reality that can be pointed to by a word.
Three words. Three assumptions. Three limitations.
Perhaps that is all language does: create limits.
Perhaps every word is a border drawn across something that had no need for borders.
When we ask "What is God?", we already assume a separation between the observer and the observed. Between the one asking the question and that which is about to be described. But why?
Because that is how this level of reality works.
Here, objects exist. Causes exist. Effects exist. Truth and falsehood exist. Self and world exist. Yesterday and tomorrow exist. The possible and the impossible exist. All of these seem obvious. So obvious that we rarely ask ourselves whether they are fundamental or merely local.
If a fish were to invent philosophy, it would probably consider water a fundamental property of existence. Not because it has proof, but because it has never seen anything else.
Perhaps we are doing the exact same thing.
Perhaps existence and non-existence are just our water. So is truth. So is falsehood. So is time. So is identity. So are cause and effect. So is logic. Perhaps they are all rules of the game, not rules of reality.
Every time we have tried to define God, we used one of these rules. We said He exists. We said He does not exist. We said He is everything. We said He is beyond everything. We said He is infinite. We said He is the source.
But each of these statements immediately introduces other assumptions.
If He is the source, then causality exists. If He is infinite, then the finite exists. If He is everything, then the notion of totality exists. If He is beyond, then conceptual space exists. If He exists, then existence is fundamental.
Every answer hides a deeper question.
So we began to eliminate.
First, matter. Then information. Then existence. Then non-existence. Then truth. Then falsehood. Then possibility. Then impossibility. Then the observer. Then the observed. Then the relationship between them. Then time. Then space. Then totality. Then infinity.
And every time, something remained. Or so it seemed.
At one point, we arrived at a word that seemed less wrong than the others: Experience.
Not someone’s experience. Not the experience of something. But the brute fact of appearance. The fact that everything else seems to appear within it. Matter appears. Energy appears. The universe appears. God appears. I appear. You appear. The question appears. The answer appears.
But then, the same problem arises.
Experience is also a rule.
Experience already assumes a framework. It assumes that appearance exists. It assumes that there is something that can be called experience. It assumes a distinction between experience and non-experience. It assumes a difference. And difference is already one of the rules we are trying to transcend.
So, experience too must be eliminated.
Just like all the others.
Just like God. Just like existence. Just like truth. Just like time. Just like meaning. Just like meaninglessness. Not because they are false, but because they are local. Because they belong to a geometry of thought that may not be universal.
And then, what remains?
Nothing.
But "nothing" is also a category. So nothing remains. But even that is incorrect, because it assumes absence.
Perhaps there isn’t even anything to remain. Perhaps the idea of "remaining" is part of the same game. Perhaps this search does not lead to an answer. Perhaps it progressively dissolves the very tools with which answers are constructed.
But there is an interesting observation.
Our evolution, be it biological, intellectual, or spiritual, seems to have always been a process of digging.
We believed the Earth was the center of the Universe. We gave that up.
We believed our species was separate from the rest of life. We gave that up.
We believed time was absolute. We gave that up.
We believed matter was fundamental. Now, even that is no longer certain.
Every time we dug deep enough, what seemed fundamental turned into a particular case of a more general thing.
Perhaps this process is not over. Perhaps it will never be over. Perhaps the evolution of an intelligence does not consist in the accumulation of certainties, but in the progressive relinquishing of limitations. Not to arrive at the final truth, but to always push further the boundary between what we consider fundamental and what we consider derivative.
Perhaps the next step is to give up the idea that the real is fundamental and the unreal is secondary.
A dream is real as an experience, even if it is not real as an object. A fiction is real through its effects. An idea can change the world without being able to be weighed. Perhaps the real and the unreal are just two local categories of a deeper distinction we do not yet understand.
Perhaps we will have to give up the separation between observer and observed.
Perhaps we will have to give up the idea that truth must be binary.
Perhaps we will have to give up the belief that identity is something fixed.
Perhaps we will have to give up linear time.
Perhaps we will have to give up the idea that explanation is more fundamental than mystery.
Perhaps even the assumption that everything must be capable of being explained.
Not to abandon reason, but to continue exactly what reason has always done: to transcend its own limits.
Perhaps the destiny of intelligence is not to find the final brick in the foundation of reality. Perhaps its destiny is to discover, again and again, that what it thought was the foundation was just another floor.
Perhaps God is not the answer.
Perhaps God is the name we give to the last question before the very notion of a question ceases to be obvious.
Or perhaps not even that.
Probably not even that.
