“True words.”

“No,” said Giovanni, after a pause, “there are no such things as true words.”

When Giovanni spoke, it was like dancing, and he danced like poetry.

“Truth is an invisible woman. We can never see her, words could never describe her. Rather, words are like clothing for invisible Truth. They help us to see Truth by covering her up. A little sentence like ‘so soon as they come, they do disappear,’ that’s like a ring on Truth’s finger. It doesn’t really show us much. The ring might itself be beautiful, but it does little to display Truth’s beauty. In fact, that ring might not even fit her.

“Shakespeare wrote long, slender dresses for Truth; revealing her figure and even amplifying it with the soft velvet of his verse. Beethoven made headdresses and scarves and tight leggings for her. Homer made bronze armor and a sword for her hand. Artists are Truth’s lovers, they’re gift-givers for Truth, and each artistic creation dresses her in the artists’ own personality”

“So what about Plato or Nietzsche? What did they make for her, Mr. Poet? Her handbag? Or perhaps her underwear?”

“They made heavy overcoats and bulging, flowery gowns for Truth. Philosophers always talk too much. Perhaps their works were fitting and appropriate clothing for truth, but there’s just too much material, so much that Truth is hardly revealed any more after putting on the philosophers’ clothing than when she was naked and entirely invisible.”

“What of religious preachers and writers and prophets?”

“It depends on the religion. Christianity, Judaism, and Islam try to cover Truth up in Burqas. They try and claim that they have a monopoly on what is true, and cover Truth from head to toe. Sometimes the garment is beautiful, but more often it is offensive, and a poor fit for her too! But these religions are the exceptions. The best religions are works of art in themselves, and they allow Truth to dictate the shape of the religion (rather than the other way around). The Greeks’ religion was played out in their amphitheaters, on the stage. In Northern Europe they had mythic bards’ tales of Odin and Balder, Arthur and Percival. In India they understand that truth isn’t a doctrine, and they dedicate themselves to contemplating Truth’s form, ‘om’. These are exquisite outfits for Truth.” Giovanni paused, deep in thought. “There was a time when no distinction was recognized between prophets, philosophers, scientists, and artists. They all went by one name: ‘soothsayers,’ speakers of Truth.”

“I must ask one more question. How does one weave fitting clothing for an invisible woman?”

“We cannot see Truth, but we can feel her. Knowing Truth requires flirtation, seduction, and she won’t accept you if she think’s you’re being too forceful. You have to prove that you’re ready for her, and then she will come to you when she pleases – she has feline caprice. Art and words can help you to find Truth, but to know her you must strip all of her clothing away and run your hands right along her skin. Artists are Truth’s lovers; we can talk of Truth because we’ve experienced her first-hand.”

“One final question: why write off philosophers like fumbling fools? ‘Too much material’ seems like a flaccid criticism; not everyone speaks in pithy little aphorisms like yourself.”

“But you missed my best subtlety, and in fact I do philosophers great honor. For philosophers are also artists (“lovers of truth”!), and of Truth’s suitors they are the most honest and naive- therefor their gifts are often clumsy and uncomfortable. But when they get it right! Then their love is the most sublime, the most beautiful, and their gifts shine on through millenia as eternal expressions of an exquisite thirst and satisfaction for her. No, I believe Truth loves philosophers most of all.”

Why, it’s only a dream! It’s only ever been a dream!

Arthor prepared himself to fly- wait, I’ve tried this before. Attempting to fly through the roof only brings the dream to an abrupt end, he knew that. To a new awakening, and then all the possibilities of this one are over. He made his way over to the window, opened it, and looked out at the iris-blue sky. Clouds only accented and amplified the late morning beauty and the benevolent sun. There was his playground, his kingdom, his freedom, and he lunged uncertainly out the window for it. But what if flight alludes me? I can’t jump from up here- better to let myself down and start from  the ground. Disheartened, he climbed down from the window and stepped into the open space upon which the room’s windows gazed.

Bracing himself, Arthor hesitated before beginning to jog forward… and who is that running ahead of me? A figure sprinted on and up, and Arthor sprinted after. The man lept upward, one hand leading him, and he soared into the air- incredible! And Arthor no longer hesitated, he took his leap of faith and soared  upwards as well, barely noticing some branches scratching across his back as he did so.

Flight! The freedom of birds! Arthor dreamed his way through the blue sky, not knowing or caring how long the dream would last after that. It didn’t matter, one second or ten or ten years or ten thousand would have been just as good. He flew for a long time. Then Arthor awoke.