Sometimes, it is easier to talk to people who do not know you enough. People who do not know who you have been or are meant to be. Who are unaware of the routine you lead, the names you secretly scribble, or the pain you are too afraid to recount. Who do not know that you give refuge to fallen flowers in your books, or that you evade before you tell anyone what you feel. Unawareness cements limits, and words remain slaves of our inhibitions — often until it is too late.
Conversations with these people stay linear, then — unburdened with the heaviness of contexts; continue sans the existence of any history or future, amid abundant opaqueness of the lives led. You can be anyone — you or your distorted self — dipped in honesty or fraud — without encountering any acknowledgement or protest. You feel freer without the risky rising-sinking wavelengths of hope. Because there is no hope. You become your liberated moment.
Sometimes, you should talk to people who do not know you enough. Because, who says you have to have knowledge to feel quite at home?