Self writing

 

Why I Write Letters to Myself—And Why You Should Too

Many leaders write letters to themselves—not because they’re lost, but because they’re deeply connected to where they’re going.

Self-writing is clarity. It’s alignment. It’s a quiet but powerful act of leadership.

Here’s a short note I wrote to myself this morning. Maybe you need to hear it too:

Dear Masood,

What a gift it is to wake up surrounded by blessings.

This day—this very one—will never come again. Let it count. Make it a meaningful step toward your bigger dreams. Connect every task, every decision to the future you’re building.

You just drank lemon water to detox your body—now detox your thoughts, too. Let go of doubt. Release the past.

Breathe deeply.
You are loved.
You are blessed.

Reach out to the people who matter. Feel their presence. Let gratitude be your fuel.

Now ask yourself: What do I want to create today? What truly matters?

Let’s begin.

—Masood

He did'nt say it

 He Didn't Say It

“Oh, I won’t bother you again.”
With those quiet words, she stood to leave his office.

He wanted to stop her—to say, Don’t go. You don’t bother me. I love the way you tease me, annoy me, bug me.
But the words never found the courage to escape his heart.

And so, she left.

She left for good, and in her place, a hollow silence settled—a blank space that echoed louder than any goodbye.

At first, he just stared.

Then, slowly, that void began to shift.
Colors emerged—soft, fleeting tones like the brushstrokes of a fading dream.
He heard echoes too—her laughter, the rustle of her presence, the gentle hum of moments once alive.

It made him smile.

But beauty, like dreams, never lingers.
The colors dulled. The sounds dissolved into stillness.

Where had she gone?
From where had she come?

Was she ever real—or just a figment summoned from longing?
Had a dream walked into his world, only to vanish at the first touch of reality?

And then the truth struck him:

The destiny of all the dreams that become reality is disillusionment.

He sat with that thought, not bitter, but quiet—like someone who has finally understood a secret the world whispers only to those who have loved and lost.