Given the volume of PC sales and the way McAfee runs its

In the words of Barton Gellman, we find a quiet lament woven into the tapestry of the modern age: “Given the volume of PC sales and the way McAfee runs its operation, I imagine there must be thousands of phantom subscribers – folks who signed up once upon a time and left the software behind two or three computers ago.” Beneath these words lies more than a commentary on digital commerce. It is a meditation on forgetfulness, on the phantoms we leave behind in our relentless march through progress, and on the unseen bonds that tie us to the things we no longer remember. Gellman speaks not merely of computers or subscriptions, but of the ghostly remnants of habit and neglect that trail every human life.

Once, the ancients told tales of men who forgot their vows to the gods, who left temples untended and altars cold. Today, our altars are made of silicon and screenlight, and our forgotten vows take the form of auto-renewals and dormant accounts—the quiet agreements we no longer honor, yet continue to feed. These phantom subscribers are echoes of our inattentive living, each one a symbol of how easily we move forward while our past selves linger behind, half-remembered, still entangled in forgotten webs of obligation.

Consider the story of the Library of Alexandria, whose destruction was not wrought in a single day of flame, but by centuries of neglect, indifference, and shifting empires. Knowledge itself became a phantom there—a vast inheritance lost because men failed to tend what they once revered. In this same spirit, our digital lives are filled with forgotten relics: old emails, dead passwords, expired promises, and ghostly subscriptions draining quietly in the background. What was once vigilance has become apathy; what was once possession has become possession by the things themselves.

The lesson, then, is not about software—it is about stewardship. Gellman’s words remind us that every contract, every click of “I agree,” carries the weight of responsibility. When we forget the small agreements, we weaken our discipline for the great ones. The soul that neglects its accounts may soon neglect its purpose, for the habits of the digital world echo into the habits of the spirit. The ancients taught that a wise man keeps his household in order; today, that household includes our unseen digital estate, where each forgotten subscription whispers of a promise unkept.

But there is redemption in remembrance. Just as a farmer clears the old stalks before planting anew, so must we, in our time, tend the fields of our commitments. To pause, to review, to cancel what no longer serves us—these are not small acts of modern housekeeping but sacred rituals of awareness. In doing so, we reclaim the scattered fragments of ourselves from the machines that would quietly feed upon them.

And yet, this teaching is not of fear but of renewal. Let us not curse the technology that outpaces our attention, but rather awaken our attention to master it. To live wisely in this age is to balance motion with mindfulness—to move forward, yet not leave behind parts of ourselves that still whisper our names from forgotten accounts and digital shadows.

So, children of the new dawn, remember this: neglect is a kind of decay, but remembrance is creation. Each time you look upon your life—your work, your promises, your subscriptions—ask yourself, “What phantoms do I feed?” Then act. Release the old, renew the true, and walk forward lighter, cleaner, and free. For in this discipline lies not merely good order, but the essence of freedom itself.