Awe:Some or Awe:None?

First off, it would really help if "anon" was spelled "awenone," because then my pun wouldn't have flopped as epically as it did just there.

But, my friends, this is not a defense of puns. That's old news in the blog-esphere. Today I would like to express the fact that I'm having an emotion. It's not rage towards weather, nor is it any fork-stabbing tendencies towards Twilight.

Today's emotion is both apprehension towards awe and awe towards apprehension.

I see we've got a little paradox on our hands. I also see somebody has been reading too much about New Criticism.

I am an advocate of joy. And not just the "oh hey, I got an A on my math test" (true story) kind of joy, but the "I'm going to explode if I don't run around this house five million times" kind. Except I don't have a house, so that means I end up having to spring around my dorm and people look at me funny. I feel inexplicably happy about a box of chocolate or a particularly silly gif. I secretly feel like this on the night before Christmas and my birthday:

There will be times when I have to remind myself that it's not socially acceptable to say "I'm nineteen and three quarters, and for my 20th birthday I would like a hat that looks like a koala."

Except I would like one of those please and thank you. Because as much skill as it takes to lose one of these guys, I have apparently acquired said skill:

If you see any koalas running around State College, let me know.

So. Upon entering college, I assumed that the general attitude would go from "too cool for school" to "too school for cool." And in some situations, people are perfectly open and willing to unleash their nerdy side and discuss formalism for hours on end. But there is still an overwhelming number of students who prefer to fill their time in this manner:

And I'm just like:

Normally, those who behave like college is the next high school are easily ignore-able. But as I got to the feminism unit in my English class, a writer made the claim that Emily Dickinson was a hermit because she evoked childlike traits such as awe and fascination with the little pieces of life. The author jumps to the conclusion that because Dickinson clung to childish traits, she would never be able to transition into an adult life.
Actually, a number of factors such as that whole agoraphobia thing come into play, oh all knowing theorist. 

But it got me thinking: why is it that genuine joy towards a simple pleasantry is seen as childish and unworthy of the post-eighteen year olds? It's not like Johnny Depp magically stopped liking cake as he torpedoed past the teens.

Then again, he also lost his virginity at 13 and tried almost every drug you can name by age 14. So perhaps that's not the best example.

If you think about it, Plato's "divine inspiration"--which a true writer must gain in order to succeed in his craft, according to him--is a form of true joy. The romantics would look at a scene outside and think "how beautiful, how wonderful, this gift of nature is." Did people assume Wordsworth drank out of a sippy cup and cried out to his Mommy and Daddy in between poems?

These were all considered great, sophisticated poets. If that's not awe, I don't know what is.

It seems that dulling down our excitement just to seem more "adult" makes an already difficult life even more challenging. An exciting event is an exciting event. It's not like a kid's meal; it doesn't just disappear along with your birthday. Once you get past the social constrains, you'll realize you can not only appreciate more, but observe more, and perhaps gather some understanding about human nature.

And then us English majors can all write about it and perhaps increase our chances to pay the bills and not live in a box. So that's a thing.

And before I leave you to go find some glee in snow and chocolate and...breathing...I must add that I have a third choice for my post-graduation plans: the Peace Corps. I know it's still a monkey and a half away, but...suggestions??

Namaste.