She was standing still and I was in her shadow, so she could not see me. This was not to say she could not sense my presence though. She could hear my breathing, the ruffle of fabric in my mass produced jacket as my arms swayed ever so slightly at my sides. She cried when she heard the soft sound of me laughing under my breath.
But she was frozen in place. An ice cube of flesh, completely enveloped by the absence of movement. Alive but not truly living. This did not bother me to see.
I’ve watched her for a long time. Oh how I recall days when she could run through the city, passing blocks per minute, nothing slowing her glorious strides. Onlookers would stop and turn around when they heard her footsteps. They nodded with acknowledgement at her, knowing the distances she was traveling.
But she’s frozen now because I say so. Most people walk by and think she is being productive because of the illusion that I create around her. The population and their apathies only keep my powers working at prime efficiency.
To my chagrin, she took a step a couple of days ago. However, I know the steps are few in number. In fact, I’ve been finding more power over her than ever before.
For she is the creativity of artists. I am the cliche. And because of you, she grows weaker and weaker with each passing day.