Time warp is an actuality which we fail to notice and so is space warp, but both these things are difficult to notice until you start seeing spaces more than you see things.
Once you start seeing spaces, you'd realize it's not happiness that gratifies, but a thin, light being you experience, some call it peace, some call it contentment, how one can differentiate between the two is another matter we can choose to discuss at length.
And it is not efforts that prevent us from achieving that peripheral vision, nor is it failure that does. It's something else and you see it when you observe spaces. Ask any sportsperson when he performs at his best and he'd tell you he can't explain, it's a zone he gets into where he doesn't need to try too hard to concentrate,but at the same time all would concur that as soon as that attention is compromised on, the zone dispels. So are we not supposed to be able to see that it's not the objects in front of us that we are to concentrate on, but where their boundaries blur. If you can see where something ends, you can also see where something begins.
So when nature offers happiness through different media, it is offering you objects, but what you need to see are the spaces. If one has ever experienced the peace that results when stares into the blank, one might find it a likelier point to agree to. And then you might also find it easier to understand why theory of uncertainty makes sense.

From myth of Sisyphus, an essay by albert camus ...

You have already grasped that Sisyphus is the absurd hero. He is, as much through his passions as through his torture. His scorn of the gods, his hatred of death, and his passion for life won him that unspeakable penalty in which the whole being is exerted toward accomplishing nothing. This is the price that must be paid for the passions of this earth. Nothing is told us about Sisyphus in the underworld. Myths are made for the imagination to breathe life into them. As for this myth, one sees merely the whole effort of a body straining to raise the huge stone, to roll it, and push it up a slope a hundred times over; one sees the face screwed up, the cheek tight against the stone, the shoulder bracing the clay-covered mass, the foot wedging it, the fresh start with arms outstretched, the wholly human security of two earth-clotted hands. At the very end of his long effort measured by skyless space and time without depth, the purpose is achieved. Then Sisyphus watches the stone rush down in a few moments toward that lower world whence he will have to push it up again toward the summit. He goes back down to the plain.

It is during that return, that pause, that Sisyphus interests me. A face that toils so close to stones is already stone itself! I see that man going back down with a heavy yet measured step toward the torment of which he will never know the end. That hour like a breathing-space which returns as surely as his suffering, that is the hour of consciousness. At each of those moments when he leaves the heights and gradually sinks toward the lairs of the gods, he is superior to his fate. He is stronger than his rock.