My Unconquerable Soul
By: Liz B
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Author's Note: This was a prompt at a Muse community that I just fell in love with and wanted to share.
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Out of the night
that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank
whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.Walking
home at night with his trench coat and fedora, Munch can imagine
himself as an old film noir detective. You know, like Sam Spade but
with a badge and a little more class, though it's hard to top Bogart
for class. His fellow detectives think his imagination is limited to
little green men - He tried to explain the gray theory to Fin once,
but it hadn't gotten through - and magic bullets, but that's the tip
of the iceberg. Munch can twist his mind around any subject and
create images in his mind that are as vivid as paintings. It's a
little secret he keeps to himself because no one would believe
Detective John Munch has an artistic side.
In the fell
clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud,
Under
the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.They
see him as the old cynic, clever but worn down by the years. After
all, why else would he suspect the worst or always have a quip on
hand. In a sense, they're right. Time has worn down his youthful
optimism and the job has battered his soul, but if he really was as
bitter as they thought, he wouldn't come into work in the mornings.
He's an old soldier, still charging up hills with his gold badge of
courage and sure he might have gotten a few battle scars along the
way - he refuses to think about the one on his ass - but he's not
giving up any time soon. He's a different man outside of work though.
He leaves the badge and the attitude behind - alright, the attitude
not so much - and goes to poetry readings, old used book stores and
hole in the wall restaurants. He likes the side streets and dead ends
of New York, where he can argue with other men and women who think
like him, who paint with their minds.
Beyond this place of
wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet
the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.He
refuses to talk about his work with them. They all think he's an
eccentric book collector with too much money and too much free time.
The dark parts of his soul - he know he has them, every cop does - he
leaves behind with his badge and he get to play pretend with the like
minded for a few hours. They wouldn't tell him about their exploits
with LSD or pot if they knew he was a cop. They'd think his defense
of Porfiry Petrovich was motivated by the Blue Wall instead of a
careful study of his character and Dostoevsky's portrayal of him.
Everyone changes their opinions about him when they learn he's a cop.
He's one of the lucky few who can set the job aside for a few hours.
It's all just pretend, he knows he can never truly stop being a cop.
Those dark corners don't go away, no matter how bright he pretends
his soul is, but he accepts them, understands them, and is alright
with carrying them around - for the most part.
It matters
not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my
soul.They were always his choices, that's what he likes -
and sometimes hates, his exes being the case in point - about who he
is. He's made himself, finely crafted every quirk and oddity of his
personality. He'll admit, there have been people in his life and
events that have guided his hand in remaking himself, but at the core
John Munch knows he made John Munch, the man and the detective, into
what he is today. Maybe he doesn't have Bogart's class, the swagger
of Sam Spade, or leisure time to waste, but the man he is, clever,
determined, and unflinching, is much better that any image he can
paint with his mind. He is the Intrepid John Munch and he doesn't
need to be more.