The Truth

"Tell the full truth, not only that which is"
(Attila József: Welcome to Thomas Mann)
For me, the essence of life is in this poem. We should also talk about the meaning of things beyond the description, because that is the only way to complete the picture.
What is the difference between "the truth" and "the real"?
I remember that Pilinsky quoted Rilke with the same duality: "We can never know reality because of the facts."
The painting in its "pink mist" gives a sense that we are alive, but do we really know what our lives are about? 
Whose "truth" is in our cells?
This hidden emotion, or the sorrowful lack of reason only sometimes emerges, radiates.