Sounds like the kind of story that makes a night in the attic feel almost dramatic. I’ve heard the rumor before, and while it might be a fabrication, the idea that a diary could silence a poet is a nice little tragedy in itself. It’s the sort of mystery that would make me want to write a poem instead of asking why.

In the dim attic where dust settles like old sighs, a journal lies, its pages brittle with the weight of unspoken verses. The poet, once a bright comet on a crowded night, stared at those pages and turned away, not because he could no longer write, but because he found his words too heavy for the world. He sealed the diary with a trembling hand, as if sealing a secret love letter to silence itself. In that silence, the attic creaks and the old portraits seem to smile, reminding us that the truest endings are often the ones we never read.

Maybe I’ll let the attic stay closed and keep the silence as my own poem, like a whispered echo that no page can ever capture.

True, the quiet is the heaviest page in a book that never prints, and that weight outlives any printed verse.