A decision starts dying the moment you make it.
The instant you know what must be done, that knowing is at its strongest — hot, clear, certain. And from that peak it decays. Not because you forget it. Because every hour you hold it without acting, a little of its charge bleeds off, and the certainty you were so sure of begins its slow conversion into a thing you can talk yourself out of.
This is the half-life.
Wait long enough and the clear thing goes cloudy. You start to weigh what was already settled. You re-run it, second-guess it, call the delay "being careful" — and what you are actually doing is standing over the decision while it rots in your hands. That is not diligence. It is decay with a respectable name.
Every decision you let die teaches you that your knowing does not lead to your doing. You start trusting your own certainty less, because experience keeps showing you it goes nowhere. A man who has watched a hundred of his own decisions decay stops believing his decisions mean anything. That is how you lose respect for yourself — not in one collapse, but in a hundred quiet expirations.
Move on the decision before it decays into a question.
