Is truth something that is lived or that is comprehended?

Miguel de Unamuno, The Tragic Sense of Life

when i mistook you for someone from my distant past,
it was just an innocent mistake, a bit amusing actually.
and even looking at the world through your eyes, i only
paused for a moment sometimes. then i heard your voice
and began to imagine what it would be like to hear it
at seventh avenue station whispering to me the intricacies
of the language of windows or the charm of femme fatale.

if only crossing the pond was as simple as buying
a plane ticket.