Dreaming, ego, candles, and the Big Bang

'He's dreaming now,' said Tweedledee: 'and what do you think he's dreaming about?'
 Alice said 'Nobody can guess that.'
 'Why, about YOU!' Tweedledee exclaimed, clapping his hands triumphantly. 'And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be?'
 'Where I am now, of course,' said Alice.
 'Not you!' Tweedledee retorted contemptuously. 'You'd be nowhere. Why, you're only a sort of thing in his dream!'
 'If that there King was to wake,' added Tweedledum, 'you'd go out—bang!—just like a candle!'
 'I shouldn't!' Alice exclaimed indignantly. 'Besides, if I'M only a sort of thing in his dream, what are YOU, I should like to know?'
 'Ditto' said Tweedledum.
 'Ditto, ditto' cried Tweedledee.
 He shouted this so loud that Alice couldn't help saying, 'Hush! You'll be waking him, I'm afraid, if you make so much noise.'
 'Well, it no use YOUR talking about waking him,' said Tweedledum, 'when you're only one of the things in his dream. You know very well you're not real.'
 'I AM real!' said Alice and began to cry.
 'You won't make yourself a bit realler by crying,' Tweedledee remarked: 'there's nothing to cry about.'
 'If I wasn't real,' Alice said—half-laughing through her tears, it all seemed so ridiculous—'I shouldn't be able to cry.'
 'I hope you don't suppose those are real tears?' Tweedledum interrupted in a tone of great contempt.

Someone said that the ego consists in mind-made false ideas of self.

Who I am, according to the Big Book, is a child of a loving creator (page 28). That means that, as a child of that Creator, I am of the same Substance: perfect, loving, creating, complete as part of that Whole (the Unity of Tradition One), an extending extension of the Big Bang of love into the infinity of each moment.

I am not other people's ideas of me or my ideas of me, rooted in a world that does not exist, a world of money, power, and prestige, sex, looks, and comfort: sure, the atoms that form the 'stuff' exist, but the meaning and value I ascribe to those things and from which I gain my egoic identity (in breach of Tradition Six, lending my name to an outside enterprise) lie only in my mind, a mis-gift of emptiness mis-given to emptiness.

If you wake up and realise I am a child of God, if I wake up and realise I am a child of God, that mis-creature I have mis-created disappears—bang!—just like a candle!

In this line is summed up the entire solution:

If what we have learned and felt and seen means anything at all, it means that all of us, whatever our race, creed, or color are the children of a living Creator with whom we may form a relationship upon simple and understandable terms as soon as we are willing and honest enough to try. (Alcoholics Anonymous, p. 28)