I was raised by a television

Can a person be so abstract as to lose themselves? The days drift by in a hazy lull, and each second I can feel my veins losing not blood but passion and purpose. Someone once said to me that purpose is what humans need in life, a reason to live. Work is simply a filler. But somehow I've got neither and it feels as though my mind is drifting further and further from myself- my soul is already gone. I have become an illusion. Simply a mirror image of myself repeating daily patterns and an impressionist'a print of my true self. When will this painting smudge into realism?