I cannot see the truth in beauty. Beauty it seems, though it rings so true upon my sight of it, is simply that: the harmonic resonance of my subjectivity with my sense perception. I am not content with calling this truth.

Why do so many insist on equating these two things, Truth and Beauty, when each is so immense and mighty on its own? Beauty is that which I see and hear. It falls as snow upon the warm floor of my understanding and there melts. Beauty I absorb into me.

But Truth, that is another thing altogether. Always out there lurking, never to be had. I would allow Truth into me, but it would never enter. That beast is too wild, too unruly. I see him only in glimpses as he darts behind the trees in the jungle.

So the two do seem to me, but perhaps I have been fooled. That Beauty is a treacherous one, and that Truth I have said is wild. Do they conspire perhaps, in a lair far beyond my vision? Or are they two costumes of the same wearer? Even then, such elaborate costumes as these completely obscure the form beneath, and significantly alter their wearer's behavior.