Veronica Vega’s diary

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!

There was a knock at the door, I opened it, and was surprised to see a young man with a yellow postal package.

A friend was telling me she felt like she was in an involuntary obstacle race: “Every day, the bar I have to jump gets higher!”

When I see houses in danger of collapse, I remember Juan Carlos, a friend who is no longer in Cuba.

I often find myself remembering my bicycle, and how it shrunk the distances in Alamar, the community east of Havana where I still live.