I try hard to hide depth in concise obscurity. There I go again, writing a well-formed first sentence with no personality. I’m losing my voice, my favored meandering style, in the name of conciseness and abstract imagery. I wrote the following anecdote with a concise and morbidly skinny style. I’ve grown sick of writing in this manner. I’ll present you with the two versions, one stilted and precise, and the other freewheeling and long-winded.

Version 2:

My back hurts. I don’t think God intended me to grow this tall. I’m pushing six feet three inches, and I feel every inch along my back. When I signed up for this height, they never told me about the pain. It was probably in the small print along with disclaimers of liability and choice of law. I did find a cure for backaches. When I lifted weights—this was almost a year ago when I could poke out the eyes of an unsuspecting passerby with a well-timed flex of my arm—my back stopped hurting. The pain returned when I fell off the chrome-plated, clanging, groaning wagon. I know the gym is good for me, but I have trouble turning that thought into attendance.

When I was ten years old, I was confident that (1) I controlled the universe; and (2) the universe was designed for my enjoyment. Magic was common in the many fantasy novels I read, and it was only natural that since the characters in these books manipulated the world around them, I, who was the center of my universe, should have similar powers. I started practicing the magic I found in my favorite book: will something to happen, speak a word, and it happens.

To test this magic, I lay on my living room’s red rug, stared at the stucco ceiling, which looked like the torched icing of a meringue pie, and prepared. At ten, I was average height as measured by the school’s lines organized by height. I never thought much about my height, but when asked about how tall I wanted to be (this was a surprisingly common question), I settled on the answer of six foot three. Nobody I knew was that size, but it was a nice round number, and I like how the three was half of the six (my mind was simple like that—something that hasn’t change much over the years). I closed my eyes, placed my arms at four and eight o’clock, and breathed. I imagined my arms, legs, and torso stretching. I thought to myself, “six foot three, six foot three.” The sounds around me quieted: the television in the next room, the traffic noises, which seeped through a living room window wedged open with a book, the whispering of my sisters, until only my mind’s voice, a guttural, sleepy sound, remained repeating my mantra. When I felt my hands tingle and gold energy flow through my body, I breathed one word: “grow.” I stood up and shook out my relaxed limbs. I ran to the mirror to document the changes, but nothing was different. I felt gypped.

I grew through the years a bit more than the boys around me. By the time I graduated high school, I was six-feet tall. By college, I settled into my height. Whenever I think back on my meditation, I attempt to determine if it was real, or a happy daydream. The only proof I can offer is the evidence of my unnatural growth: my arms, legs, and neck are long and thin as if stretched like pulled taffy, and my wrist bones look like hardened twigs.

Version 1:

My lower back is indignant because God never intended me to grow this tall. I push six feet three inches and my levered weight strains my back. I cure the pain by strengthening my muscles, but I am not a good patient, and months have passed since I took my medicine.

I’m ten years old, definite in my understanding that I control a universe designed for my enjoyment. I read many fantasy novels and understand the mechanics of magic. If you will something to happen and speak the word, it happens, magically. Nothing’s simpler. I lie on the living room’s red rug, stare at the stucco ceiling, which looks like the torched icing of a meringue pie, and prepare.

I crave a test of my powers, an opportunity to validate my significance. In school, they line us up by height and place me in the middle. I’m comfortable with my height, but I settle on a height of six foot three as an experiment. Nobody I know is that size, but it sounds right. I close my eyes, my arms at four and eight, and breathe. I concentrate and will myself to grow. I imagine my arms, legs, and torso stretching. I think, “six foot three, six foot three.” The television sounds in the next room mute, the traffic noises, which seep through the window wedged open by a book, quiets, and I hear only my mind’s voice, a guttural sound repeating my mantra. When my hands tingle and I feel golden energy flowing through my body, I breathe the word “grow.” I stand and shake out my relaxed limbs and run to the mirror. Nothing changed from the morning.

Many years pass and I move back through the line. I’m six feet when I graduate high school, and by college, I settle into my height. I think back on my meditation and attempt to determine if it was real, or a happy daydream. But as in everything, there is a price for my growth. My arms, legs, and neck stretch like pulled taffy, and my bones thin to hardened twigs.