When I say to you, “tree,” you are not necessarily dealing with the tree I have in mind. Rather, you summon in your mind an image of a tree that you have known, heard about, or seen before. The tree in my mind may be completely different from the tree in yours. Therefore, within this conception, there is no language capable of transmitting meaning with absolute, one-hundred-percent accuracy. A word, no matter how specific and restricted, remains an absolute word applied to a particular thing, while the meaning you receive is shaped within your own experience.
Language Is the Child of the Gap
Imagine two people standing on two distant mountains. Neither can reach the other directly, so one calls out to the other with his voice. It is the existence of distance that makes the voice necessary. If there were no gap at all, there would be no need for the voice.
In this sense, the voice becomes a passage across the gap. Language does not exist because human beings are identical, but because it emerged as a result of difference, distance, and separation between beings. Therefore, removing the gap between the sender and the receiver would ultimately remove the need for both language and voice.
The voice itself can be understood here as movement or passage within a gap; the existence of a tunnel, cavity, or space is what allows sound to occur. Thus, the cavity becomes a condition for the possibility of sound, and sound becomes a condition for the possibility of language.
From this perspective, the first language can be understood not as a complete linguistic system, but as a collection of sounds necessary for life. A call for warning, a sound for seeking help, a sound during hunting, a sound during mating, and a sound when danger occurs. Language, in this conception, was not used all the time; rather, it was connected to occasions and needs.
There were seasons for harvesting, seasons for death, seasons for marriage, and seasons for gathering. Gathering itself generated the need for shared sounds. Human beings did not need speech merely for the sake of speaking; the voice was a resource used when a necessity called for it. Therefore, the first language can be imagined as a “language of the season”: a language connected to the event for which people gathered.
Over time, shared sounds became markers of belonging. Members of the group gathered, repeated the same sounds, wore the same symbols, and moved in shared ways, as though saying to the universe: We are among you, we speak your language, and we belong to this world.
At this point, language is no longer merely a tool for conveying information; it becomes a means of creating the group itself.
From Sound to the Matrix
If sound appears only in the presence of a gap, and if language appears only because of the gap between sender and receiver, then the “matrix” in this conception becomes something that transcends language itself.
The matrix is the acoustic, linguistic, and programmed system that makes there be a speaker and a listener, a sender and a receiver. There is one who speaks through the matrix, and there is one who listens to it, while at the same time we all live within it and interact with it.
From here emerges the central statement: There is no difference between the universe and nothingness except through the matrix.
The universe does not tell you that you exist merely through its silent existence; rather, your awareness of your existence becomes possible through speech, signs, interaction, and relationship. The matrix is what tells a being that it is a being, distinguishes what exists from what does not exist, and gives things their place within a web of relationships.
Therefore, the matrix is not something separate from us; it is the record of our reciprocal dealings with the outside: what we send and what we receive, what we say and what is said to us, what we do and what happens to us.
If there is no sound, there can be no exchange. If there is no cavity or gap, there can be no sound. And if there is no capacity for exchange, there can be no fabric that we can call existence.
From here, the concept of the matrix becomes connected to the idea of the “cavity.” The cavity is the capacity to receive something. The womb becomes, within this thesis, the clearest example of the capacity for existence; it is a space that allows a being that was previously unseen to emerge. Thus, the womb becomes a symbol of the capacity to form the matrix—that is, the capacity for something new to appear within a web of relationships—meaning that the gap is necessary for generating the matrix.
Existence, Nothingness, Birth, and Death
If the matrix is the fabric that makes something known and present within relationships, then nothingness here is not necessarily understood as a place to which we go, but rather as a state of absence from this fabric.
Thus, the difference between birth and death becomes connected to the matrix itself. A being that was never born was not present within this fabric from the beginning; therefore, one can say that its “death” did not occur, because it never entered the matrix in the first place.
The period extending between birth and death is the matrix in which the individual lives: the collection of interactions, events, and experiences that occur between the moment of entering existence and the moment of leaving it.
In this view, the human being becomes part of a fabric larger than itself. There may be another form of existence whose existence we do not know, just as there may be things in our world that do not know of our existence. Existence does not necessarily equal awareness of existence.
You may exist in relation to yourself, yet not exist in relation to another being that cannot hear your language or perceive your signs. Here, language once again appears as a tool for introducing something into the fabric of knowledge.
The Unknown: A New Discovery or an Old Repetition?
From here, the thesis moves to another question: If there is something unknown to me, is it a new possibility that I have never experienced before, or is it merely a repetition of something I knew previously?
Within the cycle of reincarnation, for example, one can imagine that every unknown possibility drives the being to search for it. A person moves in multiple directions and eventually reaches the possibilities they feared, the possibilities they desired, and the possibilities they never wanted to reach.
It is as though existence were a vast tree branching into every direction; each path represents a possibility, each possibility leads to an experience, and each experience enters the matrix.
From here, the conception divides into two positions: one position says that human beings will experience things they have never experienced before, while another says that human beings do nothing but repeat what they have already experienced in different forms.
According to the second possibility, the matrix does not merely give us things; it makes us desire to return to them. It lets us taste something and makes us want to taste it again, gives us an experience to which we become attached, and then makes our need for it part of our system.
Here emerges the idea of the matrix as something that may be evil or demonic; because it does not merely provide the experience, but makes the being dependent upon it, increasing its dependence on the matrix and reducing its ability to control itself.
Fear and the Inverted Matrix
In this context, fear appears as an important sign. The feeling of safety may, according to this conception, be a sign that things have been reversed, while fear may be the signal that makes the being more attentive to what is happening around it.
Then comes the idea of the “inversion of the matrix”: the being sees itself through the other, the male sees himself through the female, and the female sees herself through the male. Each side becomes, for the other, a surface that reflects it and reshapes it.
The male is not male in complete isolation from the female, and the female is not female in complete isolation from the male; rather, each is defined within the relationship with the other. Thus, masculinity and femininity become two programs within a larger program: the “program of creation.”
This brings us back to the unknown: if the unknown possibility for the male is femininity, and the unknown possibility for the female is masculinity, then each side becomes, for the other, a gateway toward something that cannot be completed within itself alone.
From Sex to Sound
From here, sound returns to the forefront.
If the difference between male and female is expressed to a significant degree through sound, then sound becomes a marker of sexual identity. Even animals use particular sounds to announce their existence; the lion, for example, uses its roar to announce its presence, location, and nature.
In this thesis, sound is viewed not merely as a means of conveying words, but as part of the fabric that defines identity and the relationship between beings.
The discussion then moves from the relationship between male and female to the relationship between male and male. Here another gap appears: males, according to this conception, viewed one another as competitors and enemies, and therefore did not have the same natural form of communication that existed among women.
Women, according to the thesis, were more closely connected to nature and more capable of dealing with agriculture, harvesting, raising animals, and caring for children, while the male was distant from the centers of life, and therefore his accumulated experience was more limited.
The lack of interaction among males kept their experiences separate, but when they began gathering together, it became necessary for one of them to transmit his experience to another. At this point, they needed a more precise and organized language.
From this moment, language transforms from simple sounds associated with nature into a system capable of transmitting experience.
The Birth of the Band and the Patriarchal System
When men began communicating with men, experiences began to accumulate. A man came to know what he did, what it caused, and what he could influence.
From here, according to the thesis, emerged the band: a group of men who communicated, exchanged experience, planned, established boundaries, and accumulated knowledge.
Language was a fundamental tool in this transformation because it allowed human beings not to keep their experience inside their own bodies, but to transmit it to others.
Thus, action became experience, experience became information, information became language, language became a system, and the system became power.
From here begins the transition from the female system to the male system.
In the proposed conception, during the first stage, women carried out pregnancy, childbirth, child-rearing, agriculture, harvesting, and care, and their relationship with nature was stronger. The man's primary role was insemination, and at first he did not know that he was responsible for reproduction.
But when men began communicating with one another, they began to understand the relationship between sex and reproduction. The man became aware of his effect and realized that he participated in the creation of the child; this knowledge then became a source of power.
From the Free Woman to the Possessed Woman
As male experience accumulated, the relationship with women changed.
The woman in the new system was no longer merely a free part of nature; instead, she became associated with a specific man: so-and-so's woman, so-and-so's daughter, so-and-so's wife.
From here, marriage appears as one of the forms of organizing women within the patriarchal system, while ownership, boundaries, and confinement appear as tools for regulating relationships.
According to this view, boundaries did not emerge recently; rather, they have been associated from the beginning with the idea of domination. The dominant male establishes his boundaries, prevents others from entering them, and determines who can access food, land, or women.
Thus, open nature becomes matrices within a larger matrix: a center of leadership, boundaries, ranks, tasks, and a system capable of operating with the least possible amount of energy.
The stronger the system becomes, the greater its ability to control energy and movement. Therefore, control over another becomes possible by reducing their independence and making them dependent on the system.
Here language appears once again: if the female is independent, resourceful, and strong, and does not need the language imposed by the system, controlling her becomes more difficult; therefore, the need for language becomes part of the process of control.
Saving: From Trust in Nature to Distrust of Nature
One of the most important transformations discussed in the text is the emergence of saving.
In the first system, according to this conception, women depended on nature because they were directly connected to it. The man, however, when he began to feel that nature was unreliable, began to save.
The person who saves implicitly assumes that the future may not provide what he needs. Thus, saving becomes an expression of incomplete trust in the natural flow.
In times of crisis, the person who possesses the stockpile becomes more capable of exercising control. Whoever possesses food when food becomes scarce becomes a center upon which others depend.
Thus, crisis becomes an opportunity for control. When movement becomes restricted, boundaries closed, and food confined, there remains nothing for a person to do but return to the center and appeal to it.
In the text, this resembles the state of emergency measures: when restrictions are imposed, movement is prohibited, and space is closed, the holder of authority becomes more capable of controlling society.
Thus, the male moved from imitating nature to building a matrix within the matrix: a center of leadership, boundaries, ranks, tasks, laws, ownership, and saving.
The Word, the Testament, and Inheritance
But the patriarchal system did not rely on force alone; it relied on something more enduring: the word.
Men, according to the thesis, began advising one another and exchanging tasks, information, and food. One would say to another: Go and buy this for me, and when you return, bring me that.
Thus, the word became a means of creating a network that transcended place.
From here emerged the value of “a man's word”: the word is not merely a sound, but a commitment within the system. If a man gives his word, he must honor it, because the entire system depends on mutual trust among its members.
Then came the testament, followed by inheritance.
At first, when a person died, his possessions could simply be distributed directly. But with the emergence of an organized system, specific parties became heirs, and death no longer meant the complete end of a person's authority; because his word continued after his death.
The testament makes the dead present in the future.
Here another meaning of language appears: language is a means of immortality.
The man who fears extinction wants his word to continue after his death. He wants to say something and have his statement remain in force after his departure. He wants his word to become a law, a testament, or a system.
Thus, immortality is no longer merely bodily; it becomes the immortality of the word.
From the Immortality of the Word to the Emergence of Religion
From this point, the conception moves toward religion.
If religion, as a system of commands, boundaries, and rules, is based on preserved and inherited words, then the immortality of the word becomes one of the conditions that allow it to emerge.
The word was spoken in the past, then preserved by people, and eventually became a criterion for distinguishing right from wrong, permitted from forbidden, and obedience from disobedience.
For this reason, the phrase “We hear and we obey” becomes highly significant within this conception: the problem is not merely hearing speech, but responding to it. An animal hears, and a human hears, but the religious system demands more than hearing; it demands understanding, response, and obedience.
From here, the book becomes a tool for directing the person who reads it, and the purpose of the book becomes to be understood and acted upon, rather than remaining merely a text.
From Many Gods to the One God
Then comes another stage of the thesis: the transition from multiplicity to unity.
In the ancient natural system, the universe was seen as a collection of multiple forces: forces of nature, forces of fertility, forces of life, forces of death, and others.
The patriarchal system, in its pursuit of unity, wants a single center, a single ruler, and a single word.
From here, the concept of polytheism is reinterpreted as not merely the existence of multiple gods, but competition over authority: if multiple entities share power, then there is no single complete word.
Monotheism, within this conception, therefore becomes the completion of the word: one God, one center, one authority, and one supreme word.
Here the idea “the word of God is supreme” is invoked as the clearest expression of the victory of the single word over competing words.
The Purpose of Creation and the Perfect Human
From this idea, the conception reaches a deeper question: If there is a creator, what is the purpose of creation?
A cause is not always the same as a purpose. When we ask why something exists, we may be asking about the cause that brought it into existence, or we may be asking about the purpose toward which it is directed.
Here the thesis proposes that the purpose of creation is the “obedient creature,” meaning the being that responds to the word that created it.
From here emerges the concept of the Perfect Human in certain Sufi and philosophical conceptions as the purpose of creation; not merely because he is human, but because he represents the being who has reached the highest degrees of speech, understanding, and obedience.
If creation begins with the word, then the completion of creation lies in the being who understands the word and responds to it.
The Name: The Ultimate Purpose of Language
But if language transmits meaning, what is its ultimate purpose?
According to this view, it is reaching the name.
A name gives something an identity. Before the name, there is something, but there is not necessarily a defined identity for it. When you name something, you separate it from everything else and make it possible to refer to it.
For this reason, the name becomes the purpose of language.
And if the human being must have a name, then the search for the name of the Creator becomes, within this conception, the culmination of linguistic inquiry. If you know the name, you can address the one you name and single that entity out through the act of calling.
For this reason, the text invokes the idea “To God belong the Most Beautiful Names, so call upon Him by them,” as an example of the connection between the name, calling, and knowledge.
Calling someone by name is not merely the production of a sound; it is the identification of the intended object.
When I call a person by name, I am not calling an unknown group; I am saying to that person: You are the one intended. You are the one I know, and you are the one toward whom I am directing myself.
Thus, knowing the name becomes connected to knowing its bearer, then knowing its boundaries, and then knowing the relationship that connects me to it.
In the religious conception discussed by the text, this leads to a continuous sequence: knowing the name, then knowing the boundaries, then not crossing those boundaries, and then entering into a relationship between the Lord and the servant.
Language as the Matrix of Existence
And so the entire journey returns to its starting point.
We began with the gap between the sender and the receiver. Then sound appeared as a passage across that gap. Then language appeared as the organization of sound. Then the matrix appeared as the fabric containing speech, exchange, and relationships.
After that, the matrix became a social system. Then boundaries, ownership, saving, testament, and inheritance emerged. The word then became capable of continuing after the death of its speaker. From the immortality of the word emerged the religious system as a system based on text, command, and obedience. Finally, language ended in the name, because the name is what gives the intended object an identity and makes it capable of being called.
Thus, the matrix, at the core of this thesis, is not merely a machine or a virtual program, but rather a fabric of sounds, words, relationships, memory, exchange, and boundaries.
What we see, what we hear, what we say, what we receive, what we inherit, what we believe, and what we name—all of this enters into the construction of this fabric.
The word is the foundation of language, and language is the foundation of the matrix.
Language organizes our dealings with differences.
And ultimately, perhaps the greatest paradox in this journey is that human beings began with sound because they were separated from one another, then built language to reduce the distance, then built systems through language, and then used those systems to reshape the world, until the word itself became capable of surviving the death of its speaker.
Thus, sound moved from being merely a call in the wilderness to becoming a word, then a law, then a testament, then an inheritance, then a religion, and finally a name.
And from a small gap between two beings, an entire world of meanings emerged.
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