In fact, it comes to this: nobody is capable of really thinking about anyone, even in the worst calamity. For really thinking about that person every minute of the day, without letting one's thoughts be diverted by anything, by meals, by a fly that settles on one's cheek, by household duties, or by a sudden itch somewhere. But there are always flies and itches. That's why it is difficult to live.

We ususally find life pretty easy, but Albert Camus has a point in The Plague. Not that living is hard, but about brain capacity. Although certain persons tend to move into our brain, with age and by acquiring other passions, we've become better at diverting the mind towards trees, entrepreneurial dinosaurs and the importance of play. To blend out with the boy-think.