Salaam.
There's an invitation in the Qur'an to simply look — and then to look again.
ٱلَّذِى خَلَقَ سَبْعَ سَمَٰوَٰتٍ طِبَاقًا ۖ مَّا تَرَىٰ فِى خَلْقِ ٱلرَّحْمَٰنِ مِن تَفَٰوُتٍ ۖ فَٱرْجِعِ ٱلْبَصَرَ هَلْ تَرَىٰ مِن فُطُورٍ
ثُمَّ ٱرْجِعِ ٱلْبَصَرَ كَرَّتَيْنِ يَنقَلِبْ إِلَيْكَ ٱلْبَصَرُ خَاسِئًا وَهُوَ حَسِيرٌ
Alladhī khalaqa sabʿa samāwātin ṭibāqan, mā tarā fī khalqi ar-Raḥmāni min tafāwut(in), fa-irjiʿi al-baṣara hal tarā min fuṭūr(in). Thumma-rjiʿi al-baṣara karratayni yanqalib ilayka al-baṣaru khāsiʾan wa huwa ḥasīr(un).
"˹He is the One˺ Who created seven heavens, one above the other. You will never see any imperfection in the creation of the Most Compassionate. So look again: do you see any flaws? Then look again and again—your sight will return frustrated and weary." — Surah Al-Mulk 67:3–4 (Khattab)
The verse doesn't ask you to look once. It asks you to look, then look again, then again — and each time, the question is the same: do you see any flaw? No seam where the world was rushed. No crack running through the whole of it. The second look is the strange part. You'd expect closer attention to turn something up — the flaw you missed at first glance; that's how looking usually goes. Instead the sky holds. The leaf holds. Whatever you return your eyes to holds, and holds, until it's your own looking that tires before the order does. And the One this seamless thing belongs to, the verse names without raising its voice: Ar-Raḥmān — the Most Compassionate.
O Allah, let me look again — and again — and not tire of what You have made.