The first time I remember truly looking at the tool in my hands was when it stopped doing what it promised me. I looked at it in disbelief but kept it my hands together with faith.
The second time I looked at it was when it failed me once again. This time I looked at it deeper, beyond the surface that I now caressed searching for answers. It was a problem of intention, I thought, noticing that nothing was broken. I hoped it would change its mind.
The third time I looked at it I saw my own misjudgements. My stubbornness. I remembered of all the other tools I could have chosen from. It was not this tool’s fault. I wished that I was more patient, that I had asked for help, that I had waited for another day.
The fourth time I looked at it was away from my hand, on the counter table. It was dark already but I knew its every curve, every edge and yet was like seeing it for the fourth time only.