July 8th 1484

DEAREST DIARY,

Were it yesterday, I might have said that the world is a dark and gloomy place, but today, today I say it is beautiful in its fair sun-drenched splendor, with only the slightest suggestion of a storm on the horizon. This sudden change is by no means attributed to the weather, but rather credited to the love that bloomed this night at the mere sight of a fair maiden at the Capulet house. Perhaps had I had the foresight to see past Rosaline to what the stars had in store for me, I would not have made such a fool of myself over her; for I was a fool to call that which I felt for Rosaline love. That which fades in the sun instead of flourishing like a flower like one would suppose. That which draws one to the company of shadows and makes us enemies with the sunlit day. That, which excludes the fair maiden I met during that fated fete. Perhaps I should explain.

For the past few weeks, I had been infatuated with this Rosaline. My friends and parents worried themselves over my distraction and the nocturnal habits which I developed in the face of what I truly believed was the despair and agony which clenches the heart in unrequited love. They were concerned over my health for I paced like one doomed and lost in the miserable loneliness of the fathomless dark, with only the mocking stars for company. Then, oh blessed astrological beauties, they sent a servant across my path, with an invitation to a party to be held at the house of my sworn enemy, whom it was my birthright to detest without reason but their own inherited legacy of this feud. My friends took me to that celebration in guise, so that I may see that there are others in the world besides Rosaline, so that I may be cured. And no sooner did I reach convalesce than I fell ill once more, with a beauty that far outshines that lackluster and earthly prettiness of Rosaline and that chased the shallow surface love from my heart and mind. This love plunges far deeper and I feel will not be so easily washed away by the wave of another. But I will not waste my time attempting to explain what it is to love deeply to an inanimate object like a diary, you will have to take my unwavering word for it, I love Juliet, more profoundly than my unskilled pen can depict with mere words, the skeletons of human emotions.

Her cheek is bright and rosy like the new sun as the morning breaks over yonder hill through the shadow and darkness of the night. Her eyes are like calm pools sparking and radiant as they reflect the glorious sunlight. And her lips, are red like rosebuds and soft against my unworthy mug when they embraces in a prayer to the heavens.

But, alas, the stars are defiant of any perfect happiness I felt, with the one bitter, biting drawback that they tossed into my sweet cup of brew as the fatal drop of poison, Juliet is a Capulet and I being a Montague am doomed to the twofold hatred of all who bear that name. Dare I go to see her? Dare I stay away and spend a murky life in solemn obedience? Nay, I shall go. Wish me luck, but not upon a star, for they are insolent. Goodnight.

ROMEO MONTAGUE