There is something about snow that invokes the same feelings in everyone, irrespective of age, society, spatial co ordinates, anything. The feeling of hope, of happiness. The belief that there is still some chance that world can still be as pure and untarnished as when it is cloaked by the first snow. The sheer beauty of everything completely white, and becoming increasingly whiter as the day progresses, soothes the mind, calms the soul like little else can.
An intangible feeling of joy spreads through the mind, a return to the days of innocence. Adults and children alike, have quite a strange tendency to pick up the snow in their hands. Maybe just the sight of seeing something so unbelievably white, so clean, makes you want to touch it, to believe its existence. You are transported to a time where anything new and untouched had to be explored, toyed with, hurled at others with a similar curiosity to discover its abilities (specifically by stress testing it for durability); and you begin making snowballs and throwing them at prospective victims.
The snowball disintegrates as it makes contact with the (hopefully) intended surface and you’re left with an almost insane desire to watch it do that again. Once all your desires are satisfied (and you realize that you aren’t 9 anymore and that grad school comes with its share of pending lab work), you troop back inside and begin the unending process of getting rid of all the snow from your shoes and your jacket.