Veronica Vega’s diary

Just imagine. We travel through part of the universe hand in hand with a child (not from Earth). It’s a clear and unburdened gaze.

How many times throughout history has a similar force, little known and unexpected, shaken the social foundations of a country?

Rodolfo Rensoli has died, the person who made real the dream of a Hip Hop festival in East Havana—for at least six editions.

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…