I've been admiring the cherry blossoms blooming around my house.
Viewing cherry blossoms at night is quite a wonderful experience.
Each petal of the cherry blossom is nearly white, a very pale hue.
Yet, when you look at a whole cherry tree from a distance, it appears a gentle, faint pink.
It certainly gives a heartwarming moment to everyone's heart.
Now, I want to finish the final stages of sorting out books in the first half of this week.
The pace has picked up in dividing, scanning, filing, and transferring files from the computer to my mobile.
But now, I've hit a slowdown again at Agatha Christie's works.
I insist on separating them by <Detective> which makes me start to ponder whether to digitize them or not.
- The Poirot series.
- The Miss Marple series.
- The series without a detective.
- Each detective series.
- Essays, autobiographies, Mary Westmacott series.
Sorting them made me start reading them, which is a problem. The way I feel about these books now, after my children have grown and left, is different from when I read them as a young person.
The essays are quite good.
I start reading and find myself agreeing, saying, "That's right."
I really shouldn't be doing this.
At this slow pace, I won't be ready in time for the move.
A moving company is scheduled to come for an assessment right after the May holidays, so I need to reduce my moving items.
These feelings remind me of the distant past,
when I would find myself doing something different or reading books as the end-of-term exams approached.
What is this conflicting feeling?