A Warning Sign

The sun shone down from a cerulean sky, radiating a warm glimmer across the idyllic landscape. Lush fields extended out as far as the eye could see, sprinkled with vibrant wildflowers and framed by wadding cliffs. A delicate waft crinkled through the trees, bringing with it the precious fragrance of blossoming buds.

I stared around me, awestruck by the magnificence of this fantasy world. It was a Eden, a place of eternal potential and infinite bliss. I admired the flawless balance of the terrain, the way everything seemed to hold together so seamlessly.

And then I saw her. The Dream Weaver. She stood at the centre of it all, a towering figure draped in a shroud of shimmering yarn. Her eyes flashed with an unearthly vigour, and her hands moved with a quirky, fascinating elegance.

"You are in my world now," she said, her voice a soft, melodious drone. "Look around you. This is the world I have constructed. A world of curiosity, of magnificence, of endless prospect."

I couldn't look away. It was as if she held some sort of control over me, some compelling energy that drew me nearer and nearer until I stood before her, shaking with wonder.

She wasn't possessive, but I still felt a sense of anxiety. There was something about her, something that made me feel awkward and sceptical. I knew, deep down, that she was in the guardianship of everything, that she bore the legend to my pleasure and well-being.

She motioned for me to follow her, and I dropped in step behind her as we strode through the meadows, our feet slumping into the velvety, pliant grass. The air was busy with the buzz of insects and the chirping of birds, I gazed around, acting as if born yesterday.

But as we strolled deeper, I started to witness something eccentric. The landscape was becoming deformed, curved into bizarre shapes and shades that didn't quite fit together. The once-pleasant aroma of blossoms was now integrated with the acrid odour of decay. 

Something was wrong.

"What's happening?" I questioned, my voice shaking.

The Dream Weaver shifted to me, a melancholy smile on her face. "This is my scourge," she said. "To develop beauty, but consistently have it shift to bedlam. My visions are never enough. They are never natural. They are only fallacies, and in time they will always wither away."

As she talked, the earth around me began to pulverise. The fields diverted to ash, the trees wilted and died, and the sky turned a sickly tint of purple. I felt myself sinking, slipping into the void, devoured by the disarray that had surpassed this once-perfect world.

And then, just as unexpectedly, I woke up. The invention world was gone, superseded by the cruel, brutal validity of the waking world. But I knew, deep down, that the Dream Weaver's words would remain with me. Her hex was a warning, a exemplary parable of the menaces of living on a planet of ambitions.