Christina Brucker

Christina Brucker

Writer, painter, truth seeker, and beauty finder. Diving into psyches and living inside stories. 

Instagram: Christina.mb

Twitter: @et_verum

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  • Christina Brucker
    Published 7 months ago
    Duality

    Duality

    We know of them all, such as Jekyll and Hyde, and those who hide and those whom we cannot call. The small side nourishes the tall, and soon enough--we face two. One person who in one instant is as cool as the blues in a Picasso; yet in the next moment as raging red as the fury of a stallion with no lasso. He appeared to be as anyone else, wearing a mask of defense and a smile of stealth. Walking in crowds as loud as any other, hidden as a child with his mother. It is brings about aching sorrow and though we can borrow time, we cannot bring back innocence once it is lost. There is always a cost of letting go of childhood, and sometimes it is not so pretty. I wish I could write that things were happy. Some endings do not emerge the sappy close of a fairytale. Those grow stale as bread as they grow out of our heads. He came to be as tormenting as any old king or president. Without conscience. And remember, he is really just a child--as wild as bare-feet running in the green grass and the sweet smelling weeds. But rather a child it is a man, who splits as quick as the tiny drop of sand in a hourglass. The divergence happens so fast the adjustments of eyes cannot fathom what lies before them. He screams and he means to let out his aches, but forsakes all that stand before him. It is a sad story of personality. We are born how we are, that is the reality. I am sure the tormenting soul stirs up regret. I am sure his heart frets when it is about to unleash the unforgiving beast. Though we suffer at his will, I am still convinced no one cries as lonely as the king who was once a prince.
  • Christina Brucker
    Published 7 months ago
    Alone on the Throne

    Alone on the Throne

    I was born in the winter; since then it has been coming. Ever so cunning, it is as quiet as the humming of the drumming hearts. The first chapter of change began with a beheading fit of rage, all on the stage of life. We were right next to him when the wolf lost the first fight. We screamed as lion hearts beamed and it all seemed like it could grow no worse. It carried my trust off like a hearse, and my heart burst like a balloon as the script continued to unleash all the doom and the story’s bloom continued to swoon and loom.