One person's treasure. . .

Someone once told me that I’m like a treasure chest. In order to see the ‘treasure’ inside, someone must dare to open my locked heart.
Another friend told me that if I were a book, I would be the kind with hidden pictures that people spend hours searching for.
Yet another friend informed me, “You are like a treasure chest. There is a man who is going to come some day and open you up. Until then, don’t let anyone steal anything from you.”
I’ve never understood any of these comparisons. What do my friends think that I could possibly be hoarding inside my ‘chest’ that would even remotely resemble treasure? As far as I can tell, I contain nothing more than random observations, scattered ideas, and unlabeled feelings, none of which amount to very much. Rather than flatter, their suspicion of my hidden treasure sort of scares me.
The word treasure takes me back to the treasure chest in my dentist’s office when I was a kid. Enduring the checkup, ignoring the gritty left over texture in my mouth, I clambered out of the chair and knelt at the treasure chest to choose a toy.
Made in China, I read the tiny raised words on the bottom. The toys were small, cheap, useless, inoperable, good for nothing but the pure thrill of receiving a prize. There were lots of others like them in the bottom of the chest. With my interest in it soon lost, the toy would be swiftly abandoned in the cup holder of our van, or crushed in the carpet, or hidden amid the countless other toys lying on my bedroom floor.
I'm scared that after laboring to open my treasure chest, instead of finding valuable treasure inside, people will soon spy the ‘made in China’ printed on the cheap plastic of my random facts and insignificant ideas. After learning my secret, I'm afraid they would move on to the next thrill.
Maybe that’s why I keep a padlock on my heart: I don’t want to be easily discarded.