Tenderness is a feeling that is not very common in GD levels, and I think it stems from how it's very hard for players to get into that mindset of collected-ness and intimacy with the editor. There are a lot of factors that influence this, but the biggest one is that many players often feel they have to justify their time and dedication spent to this craft with expressions of grand spectacle, often leaving more quiet, humble projects to the wayside. We are constantly seeing it today, with the community's most lauded works being shallow, fast reels of ideas, imagined in intricately detailed art reflective of other games' artstyles or real life. It feels inauthentic, and it leads to our discussion of current topics in the community to be incredibly short-spanned when there isn't anything to discuss in depth about these levels.

The Moon Below stands as a defiance of our contemporary situation in GD. It's a thoughtful journey through what I like to describe as the wash of blots of colors one sees when they close their eyes. It's a very personal feeling- your eyes are looking inward, towards yourself, towards your own psyche. You call upon past memories, and the blots of color take shape, dancing through your view, accompanied by the symphony of your inner monologue, echoing through your mind. Within this level. I see myself.

I call upon my regret. It washes over my face with embarrassment, embarrassment for the person I once was, embarrassment for what I've done throughout my life, for those I've disappointed many, for the many mistakes I've made, and I will do no different in the future. Ruins of my own failures, failures to keep promises, failures to express my authenticity, failures to be the person I want to be, litter my mindscape, towering over me like monoliths.

I call upon my nostalgia. Its spirits swirl around me like fuzzy, bumbling bees. Reaching out to one causes it to list away lazily before settling back into its spot as I retract my hand. I try again, more forcefully, before numbness surrounds my body, my gears slowing down, the needles and spines of my most formative memories lulling me into a stupor. False desires- that I could stay like this forever, that I could remain in the countless episodes of memory for as long as I want, that I don't have to worry about what comes next- crowd around me like vultures waiting for their prey to expire.

I call upon my hopes and dreams. My body responds. My legs and arms become heavier. My battered hands radiate burning, numb pain from my years of using them. My shoulders and eyelids droop, barely able to keep themselves upright. My heart, god damn it my heart, feels a million pounds heavier. I am held back, held back by everything else, always out of reach from them, their starlit shells taunting me. Always sitting at the edge of the table. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride. Even if I were to touch them, their protective bubbles repel anything that could potentially free them. This is for my own good, I think to myself, I have to atone before I get what I want. I have to serve others before I serve myself.

Maybe I shouldn't overthink things. Maybe I should open my eyes.