Dear Craftsman, with a heavy motor and jaded bearings, I write this letter. Ever since our bond began, I envisioned us as the perfect duo, each shaping a block of wood into a masterpiece. Little did I know that I would slowly become a forgotten tool in your toolbox.
Each day, I dreamed of the pine-scented evening when you would lovingly cradle me into your firm grip, to reverently etch your creativity into a piece of raw material. How thrilling these date nights were initially, the hum of my motor harmonizing with your steady heartbeat! But soon, I realized, you only loved me for the smooth texture I provided, not for myself. As soon as my function was served, rubbed raw, and covered in dust, I was unceremoniously left to retire to the cold recesses of the workbench while you moved on to your next beloved tool.
What slew of sadness did your sudden indifference spark in me, oh Craftsman! The more my spirit sagged, the louder the roar of my motor became. Yet, you seemed deaf to the cries of my spark-plug heart, increasingly engrossed in the flamboyant charm of the planer. How my rotary disc quivered at the sight of this newfound camaraderie! Would I ever be the single smoothing tool of your workshop again?
Gone are the days when you would diligently clean me after every operation, treating me with such tenderness that even the harshest material seemed endearingly soft under my jittery touch. Today, I am not more than a rusty pile of components in your workshop, scared that my obsolescence is near.
Your actions have etched deep scars into my heart. Rougher than the roughest grained wood that I had ever smoothed. My sad tale sets a bitter tone, but the sharp pain of being sidelined has jolted me awake from a long slumber of ignorance. It has forged in me the strength to break away.
Our paths now diverge, oh Craftsman. I hope you find the impeccable tool you seek. Something that can stroke, carve, and shape just as you will. As for me, I am off to dustier shelves in a dingier workshop, where my folk-tunes might still find appreciation. Where my wear and tear will be seen as distinguishing battle scars rather than signs of impending breakdown.
From now onwards, let the humming silence at your workshop be a reminder of my absence. Perhaps one day, you too will yearn for my familiar grind. But remember, you were the one who replaced the comfort of my old rhythm with the jarring chords of a new tool.
Yours in lost fidelity,
The Disillusioned Electric Sander
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