My soul is black. I fear the state of my home is crumbling. Rome is in turmoil.
After the race today, Mark Antonius thrice offered Caesar a crown like coronet. And thrice Caesar denied. Though according to Casca, each time he was bestowed the honour, and refused, each time a lion like hungriness entered his eyes.
While this was happening I was talking to Cassius. He confided in me a thrilling tale, of how he saved the glorious Caesar while on an easy quest.
And I tell you this because my dear Caesar is not well. He has fallen but twice and lost himself. He is not right.
Cassius has planted a seed in my head, that is growing swiftly. He has said Brutus sounds like Caesar. Brutus is loved like Caesar. Brutus is stronger than Caesar. So why does Brutus not see himself? But now Brutus sees himself. Brutus is good.
How can I deny these thoughts? And say I have never thought, nor written, these words down. For you could betray me. I would be a liar! A dishonest man if I said such thing.
Caesar wants what is best for him, not for what is best of Rome. He will take and conquer, for he will conquer. But not for Rome! Not for his people! For himself.
But I love him! He is my brother! For our love is like a brother. How do you tell a brother his thoughts are not pure and just?
Wherefore must I have these insights to Rome's future? How I wish I could become but a villager and forget my troubles. But no! Brutus is not a man to abandon his country!
I fear this is posessing me. I am not myself. I need to end this!
Brutus
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