Compact Intermittency

How many times can I change in a minute?  Is it any wonder I seem to lack vision, that what was fertile seems to have withered and died, shriveling from wondrous warm black sogginess into dry papery beige dust?  I can't even agree with myself on what flavor of ice cream is my favorite for five minutes (yellow cake batter is a longstanding love, but I'm also partial to moose tracks, lemon custard, and seventeen or so other options—yes, I'm a nightmare in a busy ice cream parlor); how can I possibly make decisions regarding life and identity and future? Who would want me to?  (Most people, apparently.)  I'm moody and neurotic and indecisive.  I put things off. In the space of a moment, how much can I change?  And if I change so much in small space, how much little am I thus changing in a bigger sense?  If the leaves on the tree turn from green to gold to red, it's still a maple tree.  If Kiersten is angry or sad or happy or excited or sleepy or just plain stuffed full of idiosyncrasies, she's still the same old Kiersten.  (Like I've said before, Relient K describes my life.)  It's really hard to stay sane long enough to make myself a better person.