A Normal Day in ZANABIA

🌤️

In ZANABIA, normal days are never ordinary.

The sun doesn’t simply rise — it stretches. It yawns softly over tiled rooftops, glides past fluttering balcony curtains, and warms the cobbled streets just enough to make the morning feel like it has been personally prepared for you.

At the heart of town, Blenchy (our forever dignified corgi-head gentleman) is already awake. He walks with purpose but never with hurry. In ZANABIA, no one rushes unless it is toward something joyful — like fresh pastries or festival drums.

Across the lane, Ms. Snailhead adjusts her morning scarf, humming something that sounds suspiciously like wisdom disguised as a melody. She greets every passerby — not because it is polite, but because it is natural. In ZANABIA, kindness is not an act. It is infrastructure.

At Woolybay Café, the chairs are slightly mismatched (intentionally), the laughter is slightly louder than necessary (intentionally), and the tea is always poured just a little extra (also intentionally). Papa Woolybay insists that generosity improves flavor. No one has ever argued successfully against him.

Further down the street, Mr. Tran, our contemplative tiger-head elder, stands reading the day’s handwritten bulletin. The headlines are never about crisis. They are about who helped whom.

• “Manticores donate new wing-warmers to younglings.”
• “Broccoli-heads and Onion-heads collaborate on soup festival.”
• “Mr. Swanse feeds the birds again and refuses credit.”

By mid-morning, the market begins its symphony. Ginger-heads negotiate cheerfully. Turmeric-heads measure spices with philosophical precision. Persian cat-heads pretend to be serious but are secretly amused by everything.

Children — wooly, feathery, scaled and furred — chase soap bubbles that refuse to pop too soon. Even the wind seems to understand that in ZANABIA, you must not disrupt laughter mid-sentence.

At Joggers Park, Sight, the wise owl-head, jogs gently while offering unsolicited but somehow appreciated life advice. Nearby, visitors from other worlds blink in mild disbelief.

“Is it always like this?” one human asks.

“Yes,” replies Blenchy, without drama. “This is Tuesday.”

Afternoons in ZANABIA are soft. People check on one another without announcing it. A cup of coffee appears before you realize you needed it. A small note is left on your doorstep that says only: You are doing fine.

Even disagreements here are… civilized. If two Zanabians argue, it usually ends in shared dessert and a committee formed to improve both ideas.

As evening falls, lanterns glow amber. Conversations slow. The sky shifts into colors that look almost painted by someone who had patience.

The Manticores glide overhead in quiet formation, green thermal suits catching the last light. They do not patrol — they reassure. Safety in ZANABIA is not enforced. It is felt.

And when night settles fully, something remarkable happens.

Nothing dramatic.

No crisis. No shouting. No sudden fear.

Just windows dimming one by one. Just soft music drifting from somewhere. Just a town resting in the confidence that tomorrow will again be… good.

Because in ZANABIA, goodness is not a special event.

It is simply a normal day. 🌙