Evocative

Claudia has my kind of blues, in Havana:

We have been Generation Zero, the lost, the Y, the post-revolutions, we all have done nothing.

We should be the monolithic block that immortalizes a revolution made by mortals, however the density was so high that it ended up exploding into atoms over the whole planet: the Generation BIG BANG. We dispersed in a projectile that wasn’t even ours: without Guilt, without Answers, without Faith, The Children of Fear and Distance.

I wish I understood Spanish a bit better; I don't know whether I am missing anything in the translation. But I do get the feeling.

Nobody knows but for us—children of disinformation—the world is theory and speculation, what is the antithesis when the thesis doesn’t exist? My friends and I are the personal universe, the return to subjectivity, to introspection, to life experience as the height of knowledge We understand each other by halves, tolerate each other with tenderness, and do not agree with each other because, deep down, we each speak from the laughable desperation of feeling ourselves to be the last Cuban.

Her friends are a bit more awake than most Americans; the risk of starvation and beatings keeps them aware, but, like the rest of the world, there is no guarantee anyone will reason correctly or find an effective course of action. Upon finding myself branded meaningless by modernity, I have consoled myself with trying to learn about the old patterns of life; there was once a time when my position would have been secured and I would have been much more certain that my existence was beneficial to others.