Veronica Vega’s diary

As time passes, I feel a growing anxiety that sometimes prevents me from organizing my thoughts and actions.

Few things transport me to a past moment with such overwhelming clarity as a melody or a scent. They are perfect time machines.

In a dysfunctional environment that cultivates paranoia, anyone can seem like an accomplice of the enemy.

Lately, I think a lot about quantities. A bit of rice falls on the floor and I wonder: if I gather it up, could it fill a bird’s stomach?

Dreams are like seeds that germinate silently, in the dark. We don’t know which ones will reach the surface and break into reality.

Winter is leaving us in Cuba, and once again, the illusion of a noticeable change in seasons. That idea of what real cold is like…

The present in Cuba, unclassifiable by any euphemism, is without a doubt the harshest times we’ve gone through on this island.

It’s curious how, on that day, even the most skeptical throughout the old year feel that December 31st represents the threshold of change.

“Do you want to eat, or do you want to buy the jeans?” I overheard a woman ask her teenage son. What a difficult choice!