Sunday, July 9th, 1347

As much as I'd hate to admit such a thing, there are times, days even, when I resent my status as an elevated member of the Montague family. For merely writing this I could be condemned for my treason by my own uncle, yet my words are undeniably true. I hate to sound as I do here, pitiful and weak, but it seems that the simple giving of my name has weighted my shoulders with so much responsibility. I am, after all, expected to promote the image of Montagues just as dear Romeo and his father are. It is a responsibility, however, that I do not want or, rather, one that I wish had no need for existing. If Capulets were not Capulets and Motagues not Montagues it seems that life would adopt a more placid means of being and, with the elimination of this distinction between us, many of my current woes would disappear.

Though I now speak solely of peace, I cannot deny my instinctual hatred of the Capulets. I was raised to look down on them, to hate those from the house of Capulet without a second thought, yet my upbringing does not excuse my presence in the constantly burning feud among us. Tybalt, the nephew to Old Capulet, is one of the few who I feel justified in being angry with. Arrogant and oblivious, Tybalt is a disgrace that, unfortunately, has built a life in fair Verona, where I have built mine. This day in our town was one birthed of chaos, lodging itself in my brain as one full of events and regrets to accompany them. To begin it all, I was greeted in the market this morning by an already fiery conflict. And from whose mouths did this conflict pour? Of course, it was from those of the Capulets. Please excuse my accusation here, but I know Abram and he is not one to begin a fight. A very civil fellow he is. Regardless, swords were being swept through the air without abandon and there was certain to be any number of casualties if one was not to have stepped in. After having drawn my own weapon and shouting of my will, I was greeted by he who I detest most in this world; Tybalt. The saucy young man thought himself fit to challenge me, he thought it acceptable to tempt me into continuing the fight. I, however, wanted nothing more than for this quarrel to cease, the opposite of which ended up playing out before my conflicted eyes. The battle lasted for little more than a few minutes though, as our beloved Prince was swift to calm the masses with one or more threatening words. To simplify, the next man to brawl with another on our streets is to be put to death and I do not want to be that man.

On a different note, Romeo and his emotions seem to grow more complex by the very second. After suffering through the fray this morning, I was bid by Lord and Lady Montague, as well as my own curiosity, to seek truth in Romeo's occasional guarded words. He really is the equivalent of a puzzle with a vital missing piece; sad and impossible to comprehend until complete. I know, in my heart, that his once beloved Rosaline had never been the solution to any of Romeo's troubles but, on the contrary, was the creator of many new ones. Alas, poor Romeo! Damned by the lady of his fancy to a life out of her favour! Yet this night I've just experienced, this day almost at its end, has sent a fresh wave of hope for my cousin surging through my veins, hope for all of Verona as well if activities witnessed tonight continue. At the party of Lord Capulet that Mercutio, Romeo, and I so cleverly infiltrated, I caught Romeo hand to hand with the daughter of the party's host. Juliet, I believe her name is, seems to have my Romeo in the palm of her hand already. As they danced, I continued to watch, noting the way Romeo's eyes glistened with life that has, for so long, been absent. Some might call him fickle for such a spontaneous fall back into the pit of love with another woman, but have a different notion on the topic: love at first sight. Much to my regret, a different lady caught my eye and, for less than a moment, I allowed myself a short look in her direction. She wasbeautiful, that much I couldn't deny. However, when my eyes returned to where Romeo and his Juliet had been, I was disappointed to find that they had gone. Most likely, they were off to be alone. I have yet to see him again on this night. Oh Romeo, he who is always consumed by the promising word of a lady. The most I can say is that I pray this love to be a true one on both sides of the pairing for I hope not to see dear Romeo as distant as he was after barely enduring the denial of Rosaline.

Of a busy day full of busy thoughts, one overpowers all else: this day holds, within its deepest confines, my very future. Written out with the rise and set of our glorious sun, this future could predict one of two lives for me; one that swell with promise or one that I would rather die than face. For now, however, I must bid you good night for as the hour grows later my candle burns fainter.

Until we next meet,

Benvolio Montague