It is 11am.
A young man mills about his bedroom. Thoughts of regret flow through his head.
Not particularly big ones, however.
These regrets are not of murder, love long lost, or anything of that caliber. They are far smaller regrets, of failure to keep up with their hobby.
They've been meaning to write for days. They know they'll have fun. They know they're bored out of their mind.
And yet.
It is 5pm.
The young man has just realised today is the 21st of september. This date, though ultimately meaningless, is mentioned in a rather popular song.
He logs onto neocities, and posts a mention of it, along with a promise to write.
Because still, he is full of mild regret.
It is 8:44 PM.
The young man opens a notepad document. Though he has had his heart set on metafiction ever since he began writing this story, he nonetheless entertains several other ideas in the interest of making things more interesting.
Should he continue his Pikmin work? Perhaps, though he still is unsure whether to return to the traditional format. Plus, the coding is mildly more annoying than most of his other pages.
Perhaps he should continue writing ironic yaoi? Though he has promised more for quite some time, he's feeling quite creatively unfulfilled by it.
The answer is clear. He will write shamelessly indulgent metafiction.
He takes a seat, and begins typing:
"It is 11am.
A young man mills about his bedroom. Thoughts of regret flow through his head."
In case you haven't noticed, the young man is the author.
At least, that is the framing.
In actuality, the young man is a fictionalised version of the author, having many internal thoughts redacted and many more added in.
Of course, any more discussion on this would be far too self-serving for anyone to bear (assuming anyone is still reading), so in the interest of our collective sanity we will be moving swiftly on.
The young man cannot believe he just typed that last paragraph. I mean seriously, how pretentious can you get?
He is painfully aware of the irony in his previous sentence, and the current one.
Unable to resolve the story, he simply stops writing. In terms of creative fulfilment, he is satisfied.