Treasures

Right then, are we confused enough? 

At the end of the rainbow lies a treasure in shimmering gold. 
Yours for the taking, provided you choose the right end of the arc. 

The word treasure has always carried a certain magical decoration. 
When the treasure map tumbles out of an old bottle, when the investment adviser promises crypto-heaven on earth, when the wedding day was the most beautiful day of one's life — that's when the half-life of happiness has already been exceeded. 
Because a treasure promises a great deal, but rarely anything concrete.

«Treasure, I love you.» 
A sentence like that has never crossed my lips. 
Never. 
Oh no — the part about love is wonderful, but that slightly dismissive «treasure" is something I've never been able to bring myself to use. How am I supposed to describe my relationship with a beloved person using a term that is, at its core, deeply material? 

Even worse was the possessive: "My treasure.» 
Hey now — that's far too loaded when it comes to ownership. 
No person, no other creature, belongs to anyone. 
Not even after the Most Beautiful Day of One's Life.

What's more, a treasure like that tends to lead a rather bleak existence. 
As long as it exists, one locks it away in a vault and hopes it multiplies. 
Well, how exactly is that supposed to work, when the treasure is left alone, left entirely to its own devices?

Well then.
So is everything about the word and the meaning of treasure bad? 
Certainly not. 

After all, it's not the word itself — it's the wishes, the imaginings, the hopes contained within it. 
There's something energising about the way a person — you and I — goes chasing after some supposed treasure. 
As long as the chasing doesn't become life-threatening. 

It's motivating to regard the results of one's own doing as a kind of treasure. 
Especially when the treasure itself has renounced the material and operates purely in the emotional register.

These rather small but endearing editions of treasure are, after all, the sediment of what it means to be human. 

Especially when treasure transforms itself into an appealing adjective. 

I am appreciative, for instance. No, I don't mean the official who is supposed — or obliged — to assess the value of a house. 
But the value of an action, a moment of human decency, the wonderful lightness of being — these are the ingredients for a little more gladness in the chest.

Yes, here I am again, at the threshold of the vinyl record with the famous skip. That’s how a broken record works. 

But I still wake up — usually in the morning — and pinch myself. 
Not only because I'm single and there's no one else to do it. 

No, it's this thing with happiness, with opportunities, with the people around me who transform the value of the moment into a treasure. 
And that I know. 
And appreciate.

Right, my treasure?