We assume we already know how to see. Our eyes open each morning and the world appears. But Camus suggests something more radical: true seeing is not automatic. It must be learned, practiced, and relearned throughout our lives.

Most of the time, we do not see the world. We recognize it. We glance at a tree and file it under “tree,” then move on. We pass a stranger’s face and register only “person.” Our minds work efficiently, categorizing everything into familiar boxes so we can navigate without effort. This is useful for survival but deadening to the spirit. We end up living in a world of labels rather than a world of things.

Thinking, for Camus, is the act of breaking this trance. It means pausing before the ordinary and letting it become extraordinary again. The crack in the sidewalk, the quality of light at four in the afternoon, the particular way a friend laughs. Each image, when truly attended to, becomes what Camus calls “a privileged place,” a site of meaning and presence.

This is not passive reception but active discipline. Attention must be directed, consciousness aimed like a beam of light. Today, choose one ordinary thing and refuse to merely recognize it. See it instead. Stay with it until it reveals something you have never noticed. This is thinking. This is how clarity begins.